THE    RAVEN. 

"  Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aidcnn, 
It  shall  claj»p  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenorv — " 

"  (Juoth  the  Kaven,  '  Nevermore. 


ULALUME. 

1 1  replied,  'This  is  nothing  but  drcnminj;: 
Let  us  on  by  tliis  tremulous  light.' " 


f 

**VL~ 


POETICAL    WORKS 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 

It 


EDITED   BY 

JAMES   HANNAY,    ESQ. 

With  Illustrations  by 

K.    H.    WEHNERT,    JAMES    GODWIN,    HARRISON    WEIR, 
F.    W.    HULME,    AND   ANKLAY 


LONDON 

CHARLES   GRIFFIN   AND    COMPANY 
STATIONERS'   HALL   COURT 


c) 


r 


/>W/  er»  /to///,  Printers,  Glasgow. 


TO 

DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI 

1   JUbicaic 
THIS  EDITION  OF  POPS  POEMS 


WITH  THE  HIGHEST  ADMIRATION  AND  WITH 
BROTHERLY  REGARD. 


J.   H. 


882469 


PR  E  FA  C E. 


THESE  trifles  are  collected  and  republished  chiefly 
with  a  view  to  their  redemption  from  the  many  im 
provements  to  which  they  have  been  subjected  while 
going  at  random  the  "rounds  of  the  press."  I  am 
naturally  anxious  that  what  I  have  written  should 
circulate  as  I  wrote  it,  if  it  circulate  at  all.  In 
defence  of  my  own  taste,  nevertheless,  it  is  incum 
bent  upon  me  to  say  that  I  think  nothing  in  this 
volume  of  much  value  to  the  public,  or  very  credit 
able  to  myself.  Events  not  to  be  controlled  have 
prevented  me  from  making,  at  any  time,  any  serious 
effort  in  what,  under  happier  circumstances,  would 
have  been  the  field  of  my  choice.  With  me  poetry 
has  been  not  a  purpose,  but  a  passion ;  and  the 
passions  should  be  held  in  reverence:  they  must  not 
— they  cannot  at  will  be  excited,  with  an  eye  to  the 
paltry  compensations,  or  the  more  paltry  commenda 
tions,  of  mankind. 

E.  A.  P. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

EDITOR'S  DEDICATION v 

AUTHOR'S  PREFACE s  vji 

LIFE   AND    GENIUS    OF   EDGAR   ALLAN    POE        .            .            .  xiii 

AUTHOR'S  DEDICATION xxxiii 

THE    RAVEN ^ 

LENORE 4c 

HYMN .g 

A   VALENTINE .49 

AN    ENIGMA tjo 

T°-                                 51 

THE   COLISEUM 53 

TO    HELEN c6 

TO    MY   MOTHER 6O 

THE   BELLS 6j 

ANNABEL   LEE       ~~7~~~~.           T          .                        ]            '.          ~  67 

EULALIE 69 

ULALUME yj 

TO    F— S   S.   O — D 76 

THE    SLEEPER 77 

THE    HAUNTED    PALACE 8 1 

TO   ZANTE 84 

DREAMLAND 85 

THE   CITY   IN    THE    SEA   .  SR 


x  CONTENTS. 

Page 

TO   ONE   IN    PARADISE 

ELDORADO       

THE  VALLEY  OF   UNREST 95 

A   DREAM    WITHIN   A   DREAM 97 

SILENCE 99 

THE  CONQUEROR   WORM 

FOR  ANNIE      . I02 

BRIDAL   BALLAD IO7 

ISRAFEL I09 

TO   F U3 

TO- U4 

SCENES   FROM    "  POLITIAX  " TI5 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

AL   AARAAF T43 

SONNET — To   SCIENCE •  l^ 

TAMERLANE •                        •  J"7 

TO   THE    RIVER   - !  ?8 

TO   -                    X79 

A   DREAM l8° 

THE   LAKE l82 

ROMANCE ^4 

PAIRY-LAND l86 

SONG         ... '88 

TO    M.    I,    S— 190 

TO   HELEN !9! 


ILL  USTRA  TIONS. 


Designed  by 

THE  RAVEN ANELAY. 

PORTRAIT F.  \V.  HULME. 

LENORE .  JAMES  GODWIN. 

THE  COLISEUM F.  W.  HULME. 

To  HELEN JAMES  GODWIN. 

THE  BELLS       ......  HARRISON  WEIR. 

ANNABEL  LEE ANELAY. 

EULALIE    .  JAMES  GODWIN. 

ULALUME  .        .        .        .        .        .        .  ANELAY. 

THE  SLEEPER JAMES  GODWIN. 

DREAMLAND JAMES  GODWIN. 

DREAMLAND ANELAY. 

ELDORADO JAMES  GODWIN. 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM   .        .        .  ANELAY. 

ISRAFEL JAMES  GODWIN*. 

ROME F.  W.  HULME. 

LALAGE  AND  JACINTA      ....  JAMES  GODWIN. 

THE  GARDENS  OF  A  PALACE    .        .        .  F.  W.  HULME. 

AL  AARAAF      ......  ANELAY. 

AL  AARAAF      ......  ANELAY. 

WOODLAND  RILL F.  W.  HULME. 

GORGEOUS  COLUMNS         .        .        .        .  F.  W.  HULME. 

THE  ALBATROSS HARRISON  WEIR. 

THE  PARTHENONS F.  W.  HULME. 

WE   WALKED   TOGETHER    ....  JAMES   GODWIN. 

THE  WILD  LAKE F.  W.  HULME. 

FAIRY- LAND  ANELAY. 


EDGAR    ALLAN    P  O  E. 

" Amabam  pulchra  inferiora  et  ibam  in  profundum, 

et  dicebam  amicis  meis :  Num  amamus  aliquid  nisi  pulchrum '! 
Quid  est  ergo  pulchrum  ?  et  quid  est  pulchritude  ?  Quid  est  quod 
nos  allicit  et  conciliat  rebus  quas  amamus  ?  Nisi  enim  esset  in 

eis  decus  et  species,  nullo  modo  nos  ad  se  moverent Et 

ista  consideratio  scaturivit  in  animo  meo  ex  intimo  corde  meo,  et 
scripsi  libros."— S.  AUGUSTINI  EPISCOP.  Confess,  lib.  iv.  20. 

WE  must  all  have  observed,  I  am  sure,  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure,  how  much  the  literature  of  our 
American  kinsmen  has  been  spreading  amongst  us 
within  the  last  few  years.  Such  men  as  Washington 
Irving  and  Cooper  were  familiar  friends  from  the 
first;  but  they  both  founded,  more  or  less,  on  our 
own  classical  models.  Irving's  whole  tone  of  thought 


xiv         «!•**    THB  iiB/lSi)!  'GENIUS  OF 


and  >tylk':f(5r;  ?n§taiife/;i^'-png;'ish;  his  sentiment  is 
essentially  English.  But  we  are  now  beginning  to 
get  acquainted  with  writers  amongst  the  Americans 
who  are  really  national  —  in  the  sense  that  American 
apples  are  national.  Emerson  has  a  distinct  smack 
of  the  rich  and  sunny  West;  just  as  the  honey  in 
Madeira  tastes  of  violets.  Lowell's  humour  in  the 
"  Biglow  Papers  "  is  as  gloriously  Yankee  as  Burns's 
humour  is  gloriously  Scotch.  Is  not  the  genius  of 
Hawthorne  a  real  native  product  ?  And  from  whom 
but  an  American  could  we  have  expected  such  a 
book  as  we  had  the  other  day  in  the  Whale  of  Her 
man  Melville  \  such  a  fresh  daring  book  —  wild,  and 
yet  true  —  with  its  quaint  spiritual  portraits  looking 
ancient  and  also  fresh,  as  though  Puritanism  had 
been  kept  fresh  in  the  salt  water  over  there,  and 
were  looking  out  living  upon  us  once  more.  These 
writers  one  sees,  at  all  events,  have  our  old  English 
virtue  of  pluck.  They  think  what  they  please,  and 
say  what  they  think.  And  while  M'Fungus  is  con 
cocting  philosophical  histories  in  the  style  of  the 
last  century  with  drums  on  our  ears,  these  other 
open-hearted  men  are  getting  into  all  our  hearts, 
and  making  themselves  friends  by  our  firesides.  An 
Englishman  ought  to  require  no  apology  from  one 
who  introduces  an  American  Poet  to  him.  I  have 
undertaken  this  office  very  cheerfully  with  regard  to 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  I  owe  his  acquaintance,  as  I 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE.  XV 

owe  much  of  the  happiness  of  my  life,  to  the  society 
of  friends  devoted  to  art  and  poetry.  His  music 
has  made  several  summers  brighter  for  me;  and 
now  that  his  reputation  (the  man  himself  died  just 
three  years  ago)  is  appealing  for  recognition  to  the 
English  "reading  public,"  I  feel  that  I  ought  to 
say  a  few  words  about  him.  At  all  events,  this  notice 
may  serve  as  a  finger-post  to  direct  the  wanderer  to 
a  tumulus  as  worthy  of  honour  as  any  that  has  been 
made  on  the  earth  lately. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  was  a  native  of  Virginia ;  and 
as  Virginia  is  richer  in  good  families  than  other 
American  States,  we  learn  that  he  was  of  honourable 
descent.  The  name  is  not  a  common  one  in  Eng 
land.  There  was  a  Dr.  Poe,  physician  to  Queen 
Elizabeth;  and  there  is  a  highly-respectable  family 
of  the  name  in  Ireland  who  bear  the  same  coat- 
armour  as  the  doctor.  The  poet's  great-grandfather, 
who  married  a  daughter  of  Admiral  M'Bride,  was 
probably  of  the  same  stock.  His  son  was  a  quarter 
master-general  in  the  American  line;  and  his  grand 
son  David,  the  poet's  father — commencing  an  "  eccen 
tricity"  which,  as  we  shall  see,  ran  in  the  blood  after 
wards — married  an  enchanting  actress  of  uncertain 
prospects.  Having  achieved  .this,  David  Poe  (who 
was  a  younger  son)  took  to  acting  himself;  but  both 
he  and  his  wife  died  young,  leaving  three  children 
destitute.  Edgar  (who  was  born  at  Baltimore  in 


XVI  THE    LIFE   AND   GENIUS   OF 

January,  1811)  accordingly  began  the  world, — for  he 
was  thrown  thus  early  on  his  "own  resources," — as 
naked  as  a  cherub. 

Mr.  Allan,  a  rich  gentleman,  who  had  no  children 
of  his  own,  adopted  Edgar,  brought  him  to  England, 
where  he  put  him  to  school  at  Stoke-Newington. 
Edgar,  who  was  a  "  spoilt  child," — a  beautiful,  witty, 
precocious  boy, — remained  at  school  there  for  some 
five  years.  In  1822  he  returned  to  the  United 
States ;  went  to  the  academy  at  Richmond ;  and 
thence  to  the  University  at  Charlottesville.  Always 
he  signalized  himself  by  early  intellect,  quickly 
learning  all  that  came  in  his  way,  brilliant,  vivacious, 
passionate,  always — but  always  "eccentric"  in  pro 
portion;  so  that,  what  with  intemperance  and  in 
subordination,  this  youth, — 

" To  whom  was  given 

So  much  of  earth,  so  much  of  heaven,  , 

And  such  impetuous  blood," 

— was  expelled  from  the  University.  Distant  ru 
mours,  and  what  fly  faster  than  even  rumours — 
bills,  kept  Mr.  Allan  informed  of  the  youth's  pro 
gress.  Mr.  A.,  who  seems  to  have  been  a  good- 
natured  old  gentleman  of  the  school  of  MICIO  in  the 
Adelphi,  could  pardon  a  great  deal;  but  there  are 
limits  to  the  patience  even  of  a  MICIO.  Edgar,  find 
ing  that  his  bills  recoiled  on  himself  as  boomerangs 
do,  seems  to  have  tried  his  satire  on  the  worthy 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE.  XV11 

man;  and  after  writing  a  sharp  letter,  went  off  to 
the  Mediterranean  to  free  the  Greeks  from  the 
Turkish  yoke.  We  rarely  hear  of  a  more  heroic 
project ! 

I  like  to  think  of  Poe  in  the  Mediterranean.  With 
his  passionate  love  of  the  Beautiful — in  "the  years 
of  April  blood,"  in  a  climate  which  has  the  per 
petual  luxury  of  a  bath, — he  must  have  had  all  his 
perceptions  of  the  lovely  intensified  wonderfully. 
What  he  did  there  we  have  now  no  means  of  dis 
covering.  He  never  reached  the  scene  of  war,  which 
was,  doubtless,  a  great  loss  to  the  Greeks;  but  he 
turned  up — whence  or  how  no  man  knows — in  St. 
Petersburg.  The  American  Minister,  it  seems,  had 
to  relieve  the  youth  from  "temporary  embarrass 
ment;"  and  he  returned  to  his  native  land.  He 
now  appears  to  have  thought  it  was  time  for  his 
friends  to  exert  themselves.  Mr.  Allan  was  once 
more  kind  and  forgiving,  and  Edgar  was  entered  as 
a  cadet  at  the  Military  Academy.  In  the  groves  of 
that  academy  he  did  not  remain  long,  we  may  be 
sure;  the  fact  was,  he  was  "cashiered." 

It  seems  to  have  been  about  this  time  that  he 
published,  while  still  a  boy,  his  first  volume  of  poems 
— those  comprised  in  his  later  collections  as  "  Poems 
written  in  Youth."  I  agree  with  all  that  Lowell  says 
of  their  wonderful  precocity,  though  I  by  no  means 
agree  with  Lowell  in  his  depreciation  of  Chatterton. 


THE   LIFE  AND   GENIUS   OF 

There  are,  of  course,  obvious  traces  of  imitation, 
adoptions  of  the  metres  of  Scott,  imitations  of  the 
verse  of  Byron.  But  there  is  the  keenest  feeling 
for  the  Beautiful,  which  was  the  predominant  feeling 
of  Poe's  whole  life ;  there  is  the  loveliest,  easiest, 
joyfullest  flow  of  music  throughout.  There  is,  too, 
what  must  have  been  almost  instinctive,  an  exquisite 
taste — a  taste  which  lay  at  the  very  centre  of  his  in 
tellect  like  a  conscience. 

We  should  notice  here  two  phenomena  in  this 
volume,  both  of  importance  to  one  who  wants  to 
understand  Poe  as  man  and  poet.  There  is  no  trace 
of  any  depth  of  spiritual  feeling;  no  "questioning 
of  destiny;"  none  of  those  traces  of  deep  inward 
emotion  which,  like  the  marks  of  tears,  we  see  on  the 
face  of  so  many  a  modern  muse.  On  the  other  hand, 
though  it  appears  only  too  certain  that  his  wild  pas 
sions  carried  him  into  most  unhappy  self-abandon 
ment,  his  verse  is  all  as  pure  as  wild  flowers.  This 
is  the  way  in  which  the  boy  Edgar — the  rejected  of 
the  Military  Academy,  the  rake  of  Charlottesville, 
noted  for  "  intemperance  "  and  "  other  vices  " — writes 
about  a  girl : — 

To  Helen. 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nic6an  barks  of  yore 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  XIX 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 

Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 
The  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 

To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo,  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 

Ho\v  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  ! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 

Are  holy  land ! 

Could  anything  be  more  dainty,  airy,  amber-bright 
than  this  is  ?  Its  elegance  is  Horatian.  It  is  merum 
nectar^  as  Scaligar  says  of  the  Ode  to  Pyrrha.  I  do 
not  believe  what  is  asserted,  that  this  was  written 
when  Poe  was  fourteen;  but  it  was  undoubtedly 
written  in  his  earliest  youth.  Now,  Poe  may  have 
done  this  and  done  that.  Youths  brought  up  by 
fine  good-natured  old  Micios,  particularly  if  their 
"veins  run  wine,"  as  is  believed  of  some,  will  do 
many  strange  things.  There  are  hundreds  of  youths 
as  "wild"  as  Poe;  but  this  one  wrote  the  above 
poem.  That  is  the  interesting  fact.  A  fragment  of 
song  like  this  comes  out  of  the  inner  being  of  a 
man,  and  the  capability  of  producing  it  is  the  fact  of 
his  nature. 

These  poems  had,  as  was  natural,  great  success. 
He  was  already  known  as  a  youth  of  "genius,"  one 
who  had  shown  a  certain  power  of  a  mysterious 
character,  one  who  breathed  the  breath  of  that  sacred 


XX  THE   LIFE   AND   GENIUS   OF 

wind  which  "  bloweth  where  it  listeth."  But  he  was 
still  as  irregular  as  ever,  having  been  created  to  be 
so,  seemingly.  He  entered  as  private  into  a  regi 
ment,  and  again  disappeared  from  his  friends.  We 
have  a  striking  account  of  his  next  appearance  from 
Mr.  Griswold's  memoir  of  him.  He  turned  up  once 
more,  "  thin,  pale,  and  ghastly,"  the  mark  of  poverty 
branded  upon  him,  and  began  the  world  now  regu 
larly  as  a  "  literary  man."  He  soon  got  employ 
ment  ;  he  was  a  scholar,  had  read  a  great  deal,  and 
was  not  wanting  in  people  to  encourage  him.  There 
still  remained,  however,  one  step  to  take.  Edgar, 
while  his  income  was  about  a  hundred  a-year,  thought 
it  was  time  to  marry.  He  married  accordingly — a 
most  beautiful  girl,  of  course.  She  was  his  cousin, 
Virginia  Clemm — "as  poor  as  himself,''  says  Gris- 
wold,  grimly.  A  most  amiable,  lovable,  and  lovely 
person,  however, — which  some  people  think  the  most 
important  consideration, — she  appears  to  have  been. 
Whenever  the  curtain  of  Foe's  private  life  is  pulled 
aside, — which  is  not  frequently,  for  his  biographers 
and  countrymen  tell  us  more  of  his  misdoings  gen 
erally  than  of  his  home, — for  he  had  a  home, — we 
get  a  glimpse  of  her  beautiful  face — cheerful,  affec 
tionate  always — sad,  alas,  latterly,  but  still,  like 
Oriana's,  "  sweet "  as  well  as  "  pale  and  meek."  How 
little  do  we  know  of  the  wives  of  famous  men  !  What 
idea  do  we  carry  away  of  any  of  the  three  Mrs. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  XXI 

Miltons?  Of  all  the  goodness  of  the  wife  of  "brave 
old  Samuel?"  Of  the  tenderness  and  affection  of 
Mrs.  Fielding  ?  To  us  they  are  barely  names ;  but 
we  ought  to  hear  more  of  them. 

Poe's  life  henceforth  is  the  life  of  a  man-of-letters 
by  profession,  and,  on  the  whole,  it  is  a  melancholy 
history.  No  man  can  complain  that  there  is  not  in 
the  literary  profession  as  much — indeed,  there  is 
more — allowance  made  for  frailties,  eccentricities, 
shortcomings  of  all  kinds,  than  there  is  in  other  de 
partments  of  active  life  in  our  modern  social  state. 
When,  therefore,  we  find  Edgar  Poe  quarrelling  with 
so  many  people  with  whom  he  had  business  rela 
tions,  continually  in  miserable  embarrassments  when 
he  had  a  pen  which  could  command  money,  what  can 
we  say  ?  A  career  like  that  of  our  old  Savages  and 
Boyses, — as  his,  too  often,  was, — what  can  we  make 
of  it?  We  must  even  admit  that  his  misery  was 
mainly  caused  by  the  "dissipation"  which  we  find 
universally  attributed  to  him.  All  his  aspirations, 
his  fine  sensibilities,  sought  wildly  for  their  gratifica 
tion  through  the  medium  of  the  senses.  The  beauty 
which  he  loved  with  his  whole  soul,  he  madly  en 
deavoured  to  grasp  in  the  forms  of  sheer  indulgence. 
Like  Marlow's  Faust  us,  he  used  his  genius  to  procure 
him  self-gratification,  and  always  at  the  end  of  such  a 
career,  it  is  the  devil,  as  our  pious  old  singers  believed, 
who  waits  for  the  hero. 


XX11  THE   LIFE   AND   GENIUS   OF 

In  truth,  it  was  the  Beautiful  that  he  loved  with 
his  entire  nature.  In  sorrowful  forms,  sombre  or 
grotesque  forms — brilliant  and  musical,  or  scientific 
forms,  he  sought  the  Beautiful;  and  in  all  these 
forms  his  writings  have  embodied  it.  In  his  life, 
too,  he  loved  the  emotions  which  the  Beautiful  pro 
duces  ;  but  we  know  from  the  Phcedrus,  old  wisdom 
yet  new,  "  that  though  the  beautiful  be  the  dearest 
and  most  lovable  of  all  things,"  yet  that  "he  who 
hath  not  been  lately  initiated  in  the  mysteries,  or 
rather  has  become  depraved,  is  not  easily  excited 
to  the  true  beauty  itself,  but  only  to  a  certain  like 
ness  of  it,  which  goes  by  its  name ;  and  so  he  does 
not  venerate  it,  but,  after  the  manner  of  animals, 
striveth  after  pleasure."  And  thus  Edgar  Poe  drew  a 
sensual  veil  across  the  vision  of  his  soul,  and  in  that 
blinded  way  sinned;  and  sinning,  suffered. 

Other  men  have  been  as  reckless  as  he  in  their 
youth,  yet  have  escaped  out  of  it,  and  risen  into  clear 
day.  But  he  did  not, — he  made  strong  efforts, — he 
fell,  however,  finally. 

From  the  period  of  his  marriage,  as  I  have  said, 
he  made  literature  his  profession,  and  was  connected 
at  different  periods  with  leading  American  journals. 
Occasionally  he  produced  one  of  the  few  poems  which 
compose  his  collection;  "The  Raven"  in  particular 
excited  immense  attention.  He  wrote  Tales  and 
Essays,  and  Reviews  of  all  that  was  noticeable  in 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  XX111 

American  literature;  the  latter,  in  his  work  the 
Literati,  I  have  read,  and  admire  their  sharp  cutting 
vividness  of  analysis.  They  show  a  man  of  large 
and  various  literary  attainments  (he  always  passed  for 
one  of  the  best  scholars  of  America),  with  a  spice  of 
that  bitterness  which  sprang  from  his  misanthropy; 
for  poor  Edgar,  as  Griswold  dryly  and  solidly  in 
forms  us,  "  considered  society  as  principally  com 
posed  of  villains ! "  He  hated  and  despised  the 
blockheads  who,  perhaps  from  no  virtue  of  their 
own,  were  exempt  from  his  failings  and  consequent 
sufferings;  but,  unhappily,  the  blockheads,  in  their 
condemnation  of  Edgar,  were  but  too  often  in  the 
right.  Yet  let  not  such,  there  or  elsewhere,  be  too 
harsh  on  the  failings  of  a  fine  nature,  and  the  degra 
dation  of  a  noble  mind.  Who  shall  explain  the 
mysteries  of  temperament  1  Who  calculate  the  force 
of  circumstances  ?  The  spiritual  part  of  this  man,  of 
which  a  specimen  remains  with  us,  was  highly  beau 
tiful,  and  allied  to  the  perennial  beauty !  Let  solid 
excellence  of  the  epitaph  description  remember,  that 
perhaps  all  its  parlour  virtues  are  not  worth  one 
hour  of  Coleridge's  remorse. 

I  have  hinted  above  that  it  is  difficult  to  get  such 
details  of  the  better  part  of  Edgar's  life  as  would 
enable  me  to  give  some  little  picture  of  him.  WILLIS 
has  written  a  fine  graceful  sketch,  both  manly  and 
tender,  of  him,  and  describes  him  as  "a  winning, 
sad-mannered  gentleman."  But  Willis  never  visited 


XXIV  THE    LIFE   AND   GENIUS   OF 

his  home,  and  cannot  be  said  to  have  been  intimate 
with  him.  Yet  we  hear  of  the  air  of  simplicity  and 
elegance  which  pervaded  the  poet's  house, — we  have 
a  glimpse  of  it  from  the  pen  of  Frances  Osgood, — we 
see  the  poet  industrious,  playful,  with  his  beautiful 
and  affectionate  Virginia  with  him,  and  her  mother, 
whose  name  is  never  to  be  mentioned  in  the  history 
of  Poe's  life  without  signal  honour.  Maria  Clemm, 
his  mother-in-law,  was  truly  a  mother  to  him,  faith 
ful  to  him  through  all  the  strange  fortune  which  he 
underwent,  with  true  womanly  constancy. 

His  portrait,  prefixed  to  the  American  edition,  is 
a  very  interesting — a  very  characteristic  one.  A  fine 
thoughtful  face  you  see  at  once,  with  lineaments  of 
delicacy,  such  as  belong  only  to  genius  or  high  blood. 
The  forehead  is  grand  and  pale,  the  eyes  dark,  gleam 
ing  with  sensibility  and  the  light  of  soul.  A  face  of 
passion  it  is,  and  in  the  lower  part  wants  firmness, — 
a  face  that  would  inspire  women  with  sentiment,  men 
with  interest  and  curiosity. 

His  wife  died, — they  had  had  no  children.  His 
"  Annabel  Lee "  records  his  recollection  of  her  with 
something  more  than  tenderness.  I  suppose  his 
wayward  ways  caused  her  much  sorrow;  but  they 
loved  each  other  truly.  She  seems  to  have  been  a 
simple,  affectionate  creature,  contented  on  very  easy 
terms,  rich  with  a  heart  that  could  bear  much,  and, 
most  likely,  placed  its  highest  hopes  elsewhere. 
She,  at  all  events,  did  her  duty  in  all  purity  and 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  XXV 

goodness,  and  is  gone  where  these  virtues  are  better 
understood  than  here. 

Poe  had  been  lecturing  on  the  "Universe"  in 
1848,  and  producing  his  strange  great  book  Eureka, 
on  which  I  shall  not  attempt  to  speak  critically.  In 
the  autumn  of  1849  ne  had,  after  a  sad  fit  of  insane 
debauchery,  made  one  vigorous  effort  to  emerge.  He 
joined  a  Temperance  Society,— he  led  a  quiet  life, — 
and  his  marriage  was  talked  of.  But  on  the  evening 
of  the  6th  of  October,  1849, — a  Saturday  evening, — 
passing  through  Baltimore  on  his  way  to  New  York, 
accident  threw  him  among  some  old  acquaintances. 
He  plunged  into  intoxication;  and  on  the  Sunday 
morning  he  was  carried  to  an  hospital,  where  he 
died  that  same  evening,  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight 
years.  No  details  have  been  given  of  this  last  scene : 
let  us  be  thankful  that  we  bear  not  that  pain  in 
our  memory ! 

It  remains  that  I  should  say  something  of  his 
genius,  and  the  fruits  of  it  which  remain  with  us. 
Of  his  character,  what  is  there  to  say  ?  "  Theory " 
of  it,  or  how  to  "  explain  "  this  and  that  about  such 
a  problem,  so  as  to  pronounce  what  his  life  meant, — 
only  the  presumption  of  pedants  ventures  on  deci 
sions  about  these  matters  now-a-days.  There  is 
something  about  the  "mystery  of  a  Person"*  which 
we  should  be  very  cautious  in  explaining,  though 
*  CARLYLE. 


THE    LIFE   AND   GENIUS   OF 

there  are  some  who  think  that  from  a  post-mortem 
examination  of  the  body  you  can  learn  the  soul  of 
a  man.  The  conditions  of  a  man's  life,  complex 
as  they  are,  make  the  real  understanding  of  his 
character  very  difficult.  Too  often,  particularly  in  arti 
ficial  ages  like  ours,  a  man's  whole  career  has  to  be 
run,  like  a  race  at  a  fair,  in  a  sack.  Many  a  man 
never  gets  fair  play — sometimes  is  born  with  a  con 
stitution  that  won't  permit  it — sometimes  is  born  into 
circumstances  that  will  not.  Let  us  be  charitable. 
Southey's  "  Doctor,"  when  he  heard  of  a  Toper,  was 
wont  to  say  compassionately,  "Bibulous  clay,  sir- 
bibulous  clay ! "  I  would  not  put  forward  this  com 
pendious  excuse  for  Poe;  but  we  must  allow  for  in 
firmity  in  the  man.  He  was  indulged  early ;  he  was 
seduced  by  example.  Because  he  left  traces  of  some 
thing  high  and  beautiful  in  him  in  spite  of  this,  don't 
let  us  make  that  a  reason  for  being  harsher  on  him 
than  on  the  frail  mortals  of  his  race.  One  pious 
scribbler  told  us — very  soon  after  his  death — (have 
they  not  in  America,  as  here,  a  rule  at  all  cemeteries 
that  "no  dogs  are  admitted?")  that 

"  His  faults  were  many,  his  virtues  few." 
But  I  learn  from  those  who  knew  him — men  like  my 
friend  BUCHANAN  READ,  himself  a  fine,  graceful, 
tender  poet — that  his  friends  loved  him,  and  that 
those  who  understood  him  pardoned  his  infirmities. 
Much  more  should  they  be  pardoned  now  to  one, 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  XXV11 

"Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 

Is — that  his  grave  is  green." — BRYANT. 

It  has  been  remarked  of  him  that  he  united  singu 
larly  the  qualities  of  the  Poet  with  the  faculties  of 
the  Analyst.  He  wrote  charming  little  ballads,  and 
was  a  curious  disentangler  of  evidence — criminal  evi 
dence,  for  instance — and  fond  of  problems  and  cipher. 
The  union  is  indubitable;  but  I  scarcely  think  it 
should  have  been  so  much  dwelt  upon.  Every  man 
of  fine  intellect  of  the  highest  class  includes  a  capa 
city  more  or  less  for  all  branches  of  inquiry.  Carlyle 
was  distinguished  in  arithmetic  long  before  he  be 
came  the  Teacher  which  we  hail  him  as  now.  On 
the  other  hand,  inventors  in  the  regions  of  mechanics 
partake  of  something  poetic  in  their  inspiration. 
Brindley  was  as  eccentric  as  Goldsmith.  Watt 
would  muse  over  a  tea-kettle,  as  Rousseau  did  over 
la  pervenche,  or  over  the  lake  into  which  he  dropped 
sentimental  tears.  One  very  curious  theory  was  hit 
upon  by  a  solid  critic  a  little  while  ago  to  explain 
Poe's  two-handedness.  He  knew  that  Poe  wrote  fine 
poetry — he  knew  Poe  made  subtle  calculations;  and 
what  was  his  inference  1  Credite  posteri !  He  insisted 
that  the  calculating  faculty  was  the  fact,  and  that  the 
poetry  was  calculation.  I  scarcely  ever  remember  a 
more  curious  instance  of  the  "  cart  being  put  before  the 
horse  " — by  the  ass  !  Nothing  can  be  more  clear,  to  be 


XXV111  THE   LIFE   AND   GENIUS   OF 

sure,  than  that  Poe  employed  a  great  deal  of  ingenuity 
and  calculation  in  the  finishing  of  his  tales  and  polish 
ing  of  his  poems.  But  all  this  leaves  the  poetic 
inspiration  pure  at  the  bottom  as  the  essential  fact. 
Otherwise,  if  we  are  to  make  the  calculating  the  pre 
dominant  faculty,  we  may  look  out  for  a  volume  of 
Sonnets  by  Cocker !  Poe  has  admitted  us,  in  one  of 
his  essays,  to  the  gc?icsis  of  "  The  Raven,"  and  has 
even  told  us  which  stanza  he  wrote  first,  and  on  what 
mechanical  principles  he  managed  the  arrangement  of 
the  story.  But  surely  all  this  presupposes  the  pure 
creative  genius  necessary  to  the  conception  ? 

Keeping  the  distinction  in  view,  we  shall  easily  see 
that  all  his  Tales — analytic  and  other— resolve  them 
selves  into  poems,  instead  of  the  poems  resolving 
themselves  into  machinery.  The  "  Gold  Bug,"  for 
example,  makes  a  most  ingenious  use  of  cipher,  but 
the  cipher  is  only  materiel.  Without  creative  genius 
mere  cipher  is  an  affair  for  the  Foreign  Office — which 
still  remains  a  very  inferior  place  to  Parnassus.  The 
same  remark  applies  to  his  other  poetical  exercises — 
for  such  they  are — in  Mesmerism,  Physics,  Circum 
stantial  Evidence,  &c.  Far  from  being  a  narrow 
student  of  the  details  of  these,  he  always  has  clearly 
an  eye  in  using  them  to  the  poetic  goal  or  result. 

However,  it  is  with  his  Poems  that  our  main 
business  is  just  now.  I  should  say  that  he  was  a 
true  poet,  first  of  all.  I  mean  simply,  that  his  view 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  XXIX 

of  a  piece  of  scenery,  or  an  event,  or  a  condition  of 
human  suffering  or  joy,  will  tell  itself  to  you  from  his 
lips  in  a  music  inseparable  from  it,  and  .by  dint  of 
perception  into  the  heart  of  the  feelings  which  such 
scenery,  or  event,  or  condition  would  naturally  awaken 
in  every  human  soul.  There  is  no  occasion  for  going 
into  recondite  inquiries  about  the  "nature  of  the 
poet."  We  see  how  GOETHE  had  tired  of  all  that 
when  he  tells  Eckermann,  "  lively  feeling  of  situa 
tions  and  power  to  express  them  make  the  poet." 
I  say,  take  the  verses  "To  Helen,"  "The  Bridal 
Ballad,"  "The  Sleeper;"  take  these  two  lines,— 

"The  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly, 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily,"- 

if  we  do  not  find  poetry  in  these  places,  where  are 
we  to  look  for  it  1  It  is  easy  to  talk  about  the  "  deep 
heart,"  &c.,  and  there  are  half-a-dozen  unreadable 
gentlemen  always  ready  to  assure  one  that  poetry  is 
gone  to  the  dogs — all  except  their  own;  but  submit 
Poe's  volume  to  persons  most  habitually  conversant 
with  all  poetry,  and  they  will  admit  that  the  charm 
of  it  is  in  his  book.  Those  who  may  deny  that  he  is 
a  great,  have  no  right  to  deny  that  he  is  a  true,  poet. 
As  un  gentilhomine  est  toujours  gentilhomme,  so  a 
real  poet,  of  course,  ranks  with  the  family.  The  head 
of  a  family  is,  perhaps,  a  duke ;  but  every  cadet,  how 
ever  distant,  shares  the  blood. 

My  remark   on  a  point  in  his  youthful  poems  ex- 


XXX  THE   LIFE  AND   GENIUS   OF 

tends  to  all  his  poems.  Traces  of  spiritual  emotion 
are  not  to  be  found  there.  Sorrow  there  is,  but  not 
divine  sorrow.  There  is  not  any  approach  to  the  Holy 
— to  the  holiness  which  mingles  with  all  Tennyson's 
poetry— as  the  Presence  with  the  wine.  And  yet, 
when  you  view  his  poems  simply  as  poems,  this 
characteristic  does  not  make  itself  felt  as  a  want. 
It  would  seem  as  if  he  had  only  to  deal  with  the 
Beautiful  as  a  human  aspirant.  His  soul  thirsted  for 
the  "supernal  loveliness/'  That  thirst  was  to  him 
religion — all  the  religion  you  discover  in  him.  But 
if  we  cannot  call  him  religious,  we  may  say  that  he 
supplies  the  materials  of  worship.  You  want  flowers 
and  fruit  for  your  altar;  and  wherever  Foe's  muse 
has  passed,  flowers  and  fruit  are  fairer  and  brighter. 

With  all  this  passion  for  the  Beautiful,  no  poet 
was  ever  less  voluptuous.  He  never  profaned  his 
genius,  whatever  else  he  profaned.  "  Irene,"  "  Ula- 
lume,"  "  Lenore,"  "Annabel  Lee,"  "Annie,"  are  all 
gentle,  and  innocent,  and  fairy-like.  A  sound  of 
music — rising  as  from  an  unseen  Ariel,  brings  in  a 
most  pure  and  lovely  figure— sad,  usually;  so  delicate 
and  dreamy  are  these  conceptions,  that  indeed  they 
hint  only  of  some  transcendent  beauty — some  region 
where  passion  has  no  place,  where 


"Music,  and  moonlight,  and  feeling, 
Are  one," 


as  Shelley  says. 


EDGAR   ALLAN    POE.  XXXI 

Poe  loved  splendour, — he  delighted  in  the  gor 
geous — in  ancient  birth — in  tropical  flowers — in 
southern  birds — in  castellated  dwellings.  The  hero 
of  his  "  Raven "  sits  on  a  "violet  velvet  lining;"  the 
dead  have  "  crested  palls."  He  delighted,  as  John 
son  says  of  Collins,  "  to  gaze  on  the  magnificence  of 
golden  palaces,  to  repose  by  the  waterfalls  of  Elysian 
gardens."  His  scenery  is  everywhere  magnificent. 
His  genius  is  always  waited  upon  with  the  splendour 
of  an  oriental  monarch. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  tinge  of  melancholy  which 
gives  an  effect  like  moonlight  to  all  that  he  has  done. 
I  have  said  elsewhere  that  his  "genius,  like  the  eyes 
of  a  southern  girl,  is  at  once  dark  and  luminous."  * 
"  The  Raven,"  "  Ulalume,"  "  For  Annie,"  all  turn  on 
death.  And  this  melancholy,  too,  is  of  a  heathen 
character.  You  might  say  that  his  book  is  funestus. 
The  stamp  of  sorrow  is  upon  it, — as  cypress  hung 
over  the  doors  of  a  house  among  the  ancients  when 
death  had  entered  there.  Remembering  this,  one 
must  admit  that  his  range  is  narrow.  He  has,  for 
instance,  no  humour — he  had  little  sympathy  with 
the  various  forms  of  man's  life.  No  one  can  claim 
for  him  a  rich  dramatic  humanity,  such  as  makes 
much  of  the  charm  and  some  of  the  greatness  of  our 
great  poet  Browning.  But  he  is  perfectly  poetic  in 
his  own  province.  If  his  circle  is  a  narrow,  it  is  a 
*  Singleton  Fontenoy,  vol.  ii. 


XXX11       LIFE   AND   GENIUS   OF    EDGAR   ALLAN    POE. 

magic  one.  His  poetry  is  sheer  poetry,  and  borrows 
nothing  from  without,  as  didactic  poetry  does.  For 
didactic  poetry  he  had  a  very  strong  and  a  very 
natural  dislike. 

His  melody  is  his  own.  You  will  find  a  music  in 
each  poem  which  is  inseparable  from  the  sentiment 
of  it.  He  gives  a  certain  musical  air,  as  a  soul,  to 
each  poem,  but  he  works  up  the  details  of  the  exe 
cution  like  an  artist.  Witness  "The  Raven"  or 
"  The  Bells."  Everything  he  has  done  is  finished  in 
detail,  and  has  received  its  final  touches.  He  had 
an  exquisite  eye  for  proportion,  and  every  little  poem 
is  carved  like  a  cameo. 

Such  are  the  hints  which  I  have  to  prefix  to  this 
American  poet.  And  with  three-times-three  from  a 
select  band  of  his  admirers  he  is  now  launched  on  the 
English  public  ! 

JAMES  HANNAV. 


,  1852. 


TO 

THE    NOBLEST    OF    HER    SEX,— 

TO   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"  THE  DRAMA  OF  EXILE,"— 

TO 

MISS  ELIZABETH  BARRET  BARRET, 

OF    ENGLAND, 

|  Jkbuate  fyis  Volume, 

WITH    THE    MOST   ENTHUSIASTIC   ADMIRATION    AND 
WITH    THE    MOST    SINCERE    ESTEEM. 

E.  A.  P. 


THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


OF 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


THE    RAVEN. 


.     . 

ONCE    upon    a    midnight   dreary,   while    I   pondered, 

weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 

lore; 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 
As    of    some    one   gently   rapping  —  rapping    at   my 

chamber  door. 
"  Tis    some    visitor,"    I    muttered,   "  tapping    at    my 

chamber  door  : 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 


36  THE    RAVEN. 

A  .. 

Ah,   distinctly    I    remember,    it    was    in    the    bleak 

December, 
And  each  separate  dying   ember  wrought    its   ghost 

upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly   I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I  had  sought 

to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the 

lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and   radiant   maiden  whom   the  angels 

name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled   me— filled   me    with    fantastic    terrors  never 

felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating, 
"  Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door- 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door; 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more," 


THE    RAVEN.  37 


Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"   said   I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness   I 

implore ; 
But  the  fact  is,   I  was  napping,  and   so  gently  you 

came  rapping, 
And    so    faintly  you   came   tapping — tapping   at    my 

chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you:"  here  I  opened 

wide  the  door : — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 


Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to 

dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  wras  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word  "  Lenore  ! " 
This   I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word  "Lenore  !" 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 


3  8  THE    RAVEN. 


Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 

burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder  than 

before. 
"  Surely,"    said    I,    "  surely  that  is  something    at   my 

window  lattice ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore— 
Let   my  heart  be  still   a   moment,  and  this  mystery 

explore ; 

Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more.'' 


Open   here   I   flung  the  shutter,   when,  with  many  a 

flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days 

of  yore. 
Not   the   least   obeisance   made    he;    not    a   minute 

stopped  or  stayed  he ; 
Hut,    with    mien    of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 

chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chain 

ber  door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 


THE    RAVEN.  39 

VIII. 

Then   this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad    fancy   into 

smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance 

it  wore, 
'••  Though   thy   crest   be   shorn    and    shaven,   thou,"   ] 

said,  "  art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly,  grim,    and    ancient    Raven,   wandering  from 

the  Nightly  shore; 
Tell    me    what    thy    lordly   name    is    on    the    Night's 

Plutonian  shore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


IX. 

Much    I    marvelled   this    ungainly   fowl    to    hear   dis 
course  so  plainly, 

Though     its    answer   little    meaning,    little    relevancy 
bore; 

For  we   cannot  help   agreeing  that  no  living  human 
being 

Ever    yet   was    blessed    with    seeing    bird    above    his 
chamber  door — 

Bird    or   beast  upon   the  sculptured   bust    above    his 
chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "Nevermore/' 


40  THE    RAVEN. 


But    the    Raven,  sitting   lonely  on    that   placid  bust, 

spoke  only 
That   one  word,  as    if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he 

did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered;  not  a  feather  then 

he  fluttered ; 
Till  I   scarcely  more  than   muttered,  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before; 
( )n   the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 


X,. 

Startled    at   the    stillness    broken    by   reply   so   aptly 

spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store ; 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful 

disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore, 

Of « Never,  nevermore."' 


THE    RAVEN. 


XII. 


But  the   Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad   soul  into 
smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird, 
and  bust,  and  door; 

Then,  upon  the   velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 
linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird 
of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,   and   omi 
nous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 


XIII. 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex 
pressing 

To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 
bosom's  core; 

This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining 

On   the    cushion's   velvet   lining   that   the   lamp-light 
gloated  o'er, 

But   whose   velvet   violet   lining   with   the   lamp-light 
gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 


THE    RAVEN. 


Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung   by  seraphim   whose   footfalls  tinkled    on    the 

tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"    I    cried,   "thy    God    hath    lent   thee  —  by 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite  —  respite  and   nepenthe,   from    thy    memories 

of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,   O,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this 

lost  Lenore  !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


xv. 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  stin7  .if 
bird  or  devil  !— 

Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 
here  ashore, 

Desolate,  yet   all   undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en 
chanted — 

On   this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell   me  truly,   I 
implore — 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me,  tell  me, 
1  implore  !" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


THE    RAVEN.  43 


"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil  ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we 

both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore— 
Clasp   a  rare   and  radiant  maiden  whom    the   angels 

name  Lenore  I " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


".B"e\  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  !"  I 

shrieked,  upstarting— 
"  Get   thee   back    into  the  tempest  and   the  Night's 

Plutonian  shore  ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 

hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above 

my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 

from  off  my  door  ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


44  THE    RAVEN. 


And   the   Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still   is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber 

door ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming, 
And    the    lamp-light   o'er   him    streaming   throws    his 

shadow  on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  !* 


*  There  is  a  curious  little  paper  on  the  genesis  of  this  poem, 
by  Poe,  in  one  of  his  Essays,  "  The  Philosophy  of  Composition;" 
Works,  vol.  ii.,  p.  259.  No  single  poem  ever  had  greater  suc 
cess  in  America. 


L  E  N  O  R  E. 


AH,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl  !  the  spirit  flown  for 

ever  ! 
Let  the  bell  toll  !—  a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the   Stygian 

river; 
And,  Guy  de  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear  ?—  weep  now,  or 

never  more  1 
See,  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love 

Lenore  ! 


4  6  LENORE. 

Come,  let  the  burial  rite  be  read,  the  funeral  song  be 

sung ; 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 

young, — 
A   dirge  for  her,  the  doubly  dead,  in  that  she  died  so 

young. 


"  Wretches  !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated  her 
for  her  pride, 

And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health  ye  blessed  her. 
that  she  died  ! 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read — the  requiem  ho\v 
be  sung, 

By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye — by  yours,  the  slan 
derous  tongue, 

That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died 
so  young  ? " 


Peccavimus ;    but   rave  not  thus;   and  let  a  Sabbath 

song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead   may  feel  no 

wrong : 


LENORE.  47 

The   sweet  Lenore  hath   "gone  before,"  with   Hope, 

that  flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride ; 
For  her,  the  fair  and   debonair,  that   now   so  lowly 

lies, 
The   life  upon   her    yellow  hair,  but   not  within  her 

eyes, — 
The  life  still  there  upon  her  hair,  the  death  upon  her 

eyes. 


IV. 

"  Avaunt !  to-night  my  heart  is  light.     No  dirge  will  I 

upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  paean  of  old 

days. 

Let  no  bell  toll;  lest  her  sweet   soul,  amid  its  hal 
lowed  mirth, 
Should   catch   the  note,  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the 

damned  earth. 
To  friends  above,  from  fiends   below,  the   indignant 

ghost  is  riven ; 
.  From   hell    unto    a   high    estate    far    up   within    the 

heaven ; 
From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne  beside  the 

King  of  heaven." 


H  Y  M  N . 


AT  morn,  at  noon,  at  twilight  dim. 
Maria,  thou  hast  heard  my  hymn  : 
In  joy  and  woe,  in  good  and  ill, 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still  ! 
When  the  hours  flew  brightly  by. 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee. 
Now,  when  storms  of  fate  o'ercast 
I  )arkly  my  present  and  my  past, 
Let  my  future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine  ! 


49 


A    VALENTINE. 


her  this  rhyme  is  penned  whose  luminous  eyes, 

Brightly  expressive  as  the  twins  of  Leda, 
Shall  find  her  own  sweet  name,  that  nestling  lies 

Upo//  the  page,  enwrapped  from  every  reader. 
Search  narrowly  the  lines ;  they  hold  a  treasure 

Divine — a  talisman,  an  amulet 
That  mart  be  worn  at  heart;  search  well  the  measure, 

The  wordj1,  the  syllables;  do  not  forget 
The  trivitflest  point,  or  you  may  lose  your  labour. 

And  yet  there  is  in  this  no  Gordian  knot, 
Which  one  mi^ht  not  undo  without  a  sabre, 

If  one  could  merely  comprehend  the  plot. 
Enwritten  upo;z  the  leaf  where  now  are  peering 

Eyes  scintilla/ing  soul,  there  lie  perdus 
Three  eloquent  \v0rds  oft  uttered  in  the  hearing 

Of  poets  by  poets, — as  the  name  is  a  poet's  too. 
Its  letters,  although  naturally  lying 

Like  the  knight  Pinto — Mendez  Ferdinando— 
Still  form  a  synonym  for  truth. — Cease  trying : 

You  will  not  read  the  riddle,  though  you  do  the 
best  you  can  do.* 

*  FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD,  the  poetess, — dead,  since  Poe. 
For  her  opinion  of  him,  see  Griswold's  Memoir. — ED. 

D 


AN    ENIGMA. 


"  SELDOM  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce, 

"  Htflf  an  idea  in  the  profoundest  sonnet : 
Through  all  the  flimsy  things  we  see  at  once, 
As  easily  as  through  a  Naples'  bonnet — 
Tras//  of  all  trash — how  can  a  lady  don  it  \ 
Yet  heavier  far  than  your  Petrarchan  stuff — 
( hvl-downy  nonsense,  that  the  faintest  puff 

Twirls  i;/to  trunk-paper  the  while  you  con  it." 
And,  veritably,  Sol  is  right  enough: 
The  genera/  tuckermanities  are  arrant 
Bubbles  ephemeral  and  so  transparent ; 

But  this  is  no?*' — you  may  depend  upon  it — 
Stable,  opaque,  /mmortal — all  by  dint 
Of  the  dear  name.r  that  lie  concealed  within't* 

In  the  last  two  poems,  read  the  first  letter  of  the  first  line  in 
connection  with  the  second  letter  of  the  second  line,  the  third 
letter  of  the  third  line,  the  fourth  of  the  fourth,  and  so  on  to  the 
end.  The  name  of  the  persons  to  whom  addressed  will  thus 
appear. 

*  See  Poe's  Literati,  p.  242.— ED. 


TO 


NOT  long  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines, 

In  the  mad  pride  of  intellectuality, 

Maintained  "the  power  of  words;"  denied  that  ever 

A  thought  arose  within  the  human  brain 

Beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human  tongue : 

And  now,  as  if  in  mockery  of  that  boast, 

Two  words — two  foreign,  soft  dissyllables, 

Italian  tones,  made  only  to  be  murmured 

By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moonlit  "  dew, 

That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill  "- 

Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart 

Unthought-like  thoughts  that  are  the  souls  of  thought, 

Richer,  far  wilder,  far  diviner  visions 

Than  even  the  seraph  harper  Israfel 

(Who  has  "  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures  " ) 

Could  hope  to  utter.     And  I !  my  spells  are  broken ; 

The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering  hand : 

With  thy  dear  name  as  text,  though  bidden  by  thee, 

I  cannot  write — I  cannot  speak  or  think — 

Alas  !  I  cannot  feel;  for  'tis  not  feeling, 

This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 


Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate  of  dreams, 
Gazing  entranced  adown  the  gorgeous  vista. 
And  thrilling,  as  I  see  upon  the  right, 
Upon  the  left,  and  all  the  way  along, 
Amid  un purpled  vapours  far  away 
To  where  the  prospect  terminates — thcc  only. 


THE    COLISEUM. 


TYPE  of  the  antique  Rome  !  rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 
At  length,  at  length,  after  so  many  days 


54  THE   COLISEUM. 

Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie), 
I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory  ! 


ii. 


Vastness  !  and  Age  !  and  Memories  of  Eld  ! 
Silence  !  and  Desolation  !  and  dim  Night ! 
I  feel  ye  now — I  feel  ye  in  your  strength : 
()  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judrean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane  ! 
()  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 


Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls ! 

Here,  where  the  mimic  Eagle  glared  in  gold, 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 

Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch  lolled, 

(Hides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 

Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 

The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones  ! 


THE    COLISEUM. 


IV. 


Hut  stay  !  these  walls— these  ivy-clad  arcades — 
These  mouldering  plinths —these  sad  and  blackened 

shafts— 

These  vague  entablatures— this  crumbling  frieze— 
These  shattered  cornices — this  wreck — this  ruin— 
These  stones,  alas  !  these  gray  stones,  are  they  all, 
All  of  the  famed  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  hours  to  Fate  and  me  ? 


"Not  all !"  the  echoes  answer  me;  "not  all ! 

Prophetic  sounds  and  loud  arise  for  ever 

From  us,  and  from  all  ruin,  unto  the  wise, 

As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  sun. 

We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men — we  rule 

With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 

We  are  not  impotent,  we  pallid  stones : 

Not  all  our  power  is  gone — not  all  our  fame  — 

Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown — 

Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us — 

Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie — 

Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 

And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 

Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory.'' 


T  O    H  E  L  E  N  .< 


I  SAW  thee  once — once  only — years  ago — 

I  must  not  say  how  many,  but  not  many  : 

It  was  a  July  midnight;  and  from  out 

A  full-orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own  soul,  soaring 

Sought  a  precipitate  pathway  up  through  heaven, 

There  fell  a  silvery-silken  veil  of  light, 

With  quietude,  and  sultriness,  and  slumber, 

*  Founded,  we  are  told,  on  a  real  adventure. — En. 


TO    HELEN. 

Upon  the  upturned  faces  of  a  thousand 
Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  wind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe — 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses, 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death — 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses, 
That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre,  enchanted 
By  thee  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 


Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 
I  saw  thee  half  reclining ;  while  the  moon 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  the  roses, 
And  on  thine  own,  upturn'd,  alas,  in  sorrow  ! 


Was  it  not  Fate  that,  on  this  July  midnight, — 
Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow) 
That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate, 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses  ? 
No  footstep  stirred :  the  hated  world  all  slept, 
Save  only  thee  and  me — (O  Heaven  !  O  God  ! 
How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two  words !) 
Save  only  thee  and  me.     I  paused — I  looked  — 


5  8  TO    HELEN. 

And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 
(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted  !) 
The  pearly  lustre  of  the  moon  went  out ; 
The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths, 
The  happy  flowers  and  the  repining  trees, 
Were  seen  no  more ;  the  very  roses'  odours 
Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. 
All  — all  expired  save  thee — save  less  than  thou  : 
Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes — 
Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 
I  saw  but  them — they  were  the  world  to  me ; 
I  saw  but  them — saw  only  them  for  hours- 
Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 
What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  enwritten 
Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres  ! 
How  dark  a  woe !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope  ! 
How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride  ! 
How  daring  an  ambition  !  yet  how  deep, 
How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love  ! 


IV. 

But  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from  sight 
Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud  ; 
And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 
I  )idst  glide  away.     Only  thine  eyes  remained. 
They  would  not  go — they  never  yet  have  gone. 
Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night. 


TO    HELEN.  59 

They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have)  since. 

They  follow  me — they  lead  me  through  the  years. 

They  are  my  ministers — yet  I  their  slave. 

Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle — 

My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 

And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 

And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire. 

They  fill  my  soul  with  beauty  (which  is  hope), 

And  are  far  up  in  heaven — the  stars  I  kneel  to 

In  the  sad  silent  watches  of  my  night ; 

While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 

I  see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillant 

Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun  ! 


6o 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


BECAUSE  I  feel  that  in  the  heavens  above 

The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can  find  among  their  burning  terms  of  love, 

'None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "  mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long  have  called  you — 

You,  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  Death  installed  you 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother — my  own  mother,  who  died  early— 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself;  but  you 
Are  mother  to  trie  one  I  love  so  dearly, 

And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I  knew 
By  that  affinity  with  which  my  wife 
Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul-life. 

*  Addressed  to  a  lady  who  well  deserved  that  name  from 
Poe — MARIA  CI.EMM,  his  mother-in-law.  See  Willis's  Hum- 
Graphs.—  El). 


THE    BELLS. 


HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells  ' 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 
In  the  icy  air  of  night  ! 


62  THE    BELLS. 

While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

^VVitk-a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  well? 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells— 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  forete 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
\Vhat  a  liquid  ditty  floats, 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she 

On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 


THE    BELLS.  63 

On  the  future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bell£-. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 


Hear  the  loud  alarum-bells — 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror  now  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour 
Now,  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 


64  THE   BELLS. 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
( )n  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the    sinking   or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
bells— 

Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  the  clamour  and  the  clangour  of  the  bells  ! 


IV. 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells— 

Iron  bells ! 

What  a  world   of  solemn  thought  their  monody  com 
pels  ! 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ! 
For  everv  sound  that  floats 


THE    BELLS.  65 

From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone, 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman— 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls; 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

Rolls 

A  paean  from  the  bells ; 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells  ; 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells : 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 


66  THE    BELIES. 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


ANNABEL   LEE. 

1  So  that  her  hlghtioni  kinsmen  came 
And  bore  her  uway  from  me  " 


ANNABEL    LEE. 


IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

ii. 

/  was  a  child,  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

in. 
And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen*  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

*  Viz.,  the  angels, — a  graceful  fancy. — En. 


68  ANNABEL    LEE. 


The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

v. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we  — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE. 

VI. 

For   the   moon   never  beams,   without    bringing    me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
( )f  my  darling — my  darling— my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


E  U  L  A  L I E. 


I  DWELT  alone 

In  a  world  of  moan, 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 
Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blushing 

bride, — 
Till   the    yellow-haired    young    Eulalie    became    my 

smiling  bride. 


I   !    !    Mil. 


Ah,  less,  less  bright 

The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl-: 

And  never  a  flake 

That  the  vapour  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pearl 
Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie's  most  unregarded 

curl, — 
Can    compare   with   the   bright-eyed    Eulalie's    most 

humble  and  careless  curl. 


in. 

Now  doubt,  now  pain 

Come  never  again ; 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh, 

And  all  day  long 

Shines  bright  and  strong 
Astart4  within  the  sky, 
While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her  matron 

eye,— 
While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns  her  violet 

eye. 


ULALUME. 


THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere,  — 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir, — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 


II. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic 
Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul, — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, — 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, — 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 


ULALUME. 


Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 
•  But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere,- 

Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere ; 
For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year 

(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year  !)  — 
We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 
Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  no\v,  as  the  night  was  senescent, 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, — 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn, — 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

v. 

And  I  said,  "  She  is  warmer  than  Dian  : 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, — 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 


ULALUME.  73 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies — 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies ; 
Come  up  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes; 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 


But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 
Said,  "Sadly,  this  star  I  mistrust— 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust — 

Oh,  hasten  !  oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 
Oh  fly !— let  us  fly !— for  we  must." 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 


I  replied,  "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ; 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light : 


74  ULALUME. 

Its  sybillic  splendour  is  beaming 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night  :— 

See  !  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ; 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 
And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright — 

We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming, 
That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 
Since  it  flickers  up  to  heaven  through  the  night.' 


VIII. 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom— 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 
But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb- 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 

And  I  said,  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 
She  replied,  "Ulalume — Ulalume  — 
'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume  ! " 


IX. 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere ; 


ULALUME.  75 

And  I  cried,  "It  was  surely  October, 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here  ! 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  rl 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir, 

Well,  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


TO   F S    S.  O D. 


THOU  wouldst  be  loved  ? — then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not : 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 

And  love  a  simple  duty. 


.v'l  ' 


THE    SLEEPER. 


AT  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon : 
An  opiate  vapour,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim ; 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain-top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 


THE   SLEEPER. 

The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave ; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave; 
Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  moulders  into  rest ; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see,  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  beauty  sleeps  ! — and,  lo,  where  lies 
(Her  casement  open  to  the  skies) 
Irene,  with  her  destinies  ! 


O  lady  bright,  can  it  be  right, 

This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 

The  wanton  airs  from  the  tree-top 

Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop : 

The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 

And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 

So  fitfully,  so  fearfully, 

Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 

'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 

That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 

Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall ! 

()  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear  / 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 

Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 

A  wonder  to  these  garden-trees. 


THE   SLEEPER.  79 

Strange  is  thy  pallor,  strange  thy  dress, 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all-solemn  silentness  ! 


in. 

The  lady  sleeps  !     O,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep  ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep  ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 
I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
For  ever  with  unopened  eye, 
While  the  dim  sheeted  ghosts  go  by  ! 

IV. 

My  love,  she  sleeps  !     O  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep  ! 
Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep  ! 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 
For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold- 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 
And  winged  panels  fluttering  back 
Triumphant  o'er  the  crested  palls 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals ; 
Some  sepulchre  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  had  thrown, 


8o  THE   SLEEPER. 

In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone: 
Some  tomb,  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin, 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within. 


8i 


THE    HAUNTED    PALACE.* 


IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace, 

Radiant  palace,  reared  its  head. 
In  the  Monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there : 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair ! 


IT. 

Banners — yellow,  glorious,  golden— 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This,  all  this,  was  in  the  olden 

Time,  long  ago ;) 

*  The  melody  of  this  poem  has  been  impudently  borrowed 
by  an  English  versifier  since  the  first  edition  was  published.-- 
Kn.  (1856). 

F 


82  THE   HAUNTED    PALACE. 

And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odour  went  away. 


Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene  !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 


IV. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace-door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 


THE   HAUNTED    PALACE.  83 

V. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn  ! — for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate ;) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 


VT. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  for  ever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 


TO    ZANTE. 


FAIR  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers 

Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take, 
How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 

At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake  ! 
How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss  ! 

How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed  hopes  ! 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 

No  more — no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes  ! 
No  more !  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 

Transforming  all  !    Thy  charms  shall  please  no  more, 
Thy  memory  no  more  !    Accursed  ground 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled  shore, 
O  hyacinthine  isle  !     O  purple  Zante  ! 
"  Isola  d'oro  !  Fior  di  Levante  !" 


DREAMLAND. 


BY  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 
From  an  ultimate  dim  Thule  — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth  sublime 
Out  of  SPACE — out  of  TIME. 


86  DREAMLAND. 

II. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms  and  caves  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over ; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  shore; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging  unto  skies  of  fire ; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead, — 
Their  still  waters,  still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 


By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead, — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily; 
By  the  mountains — near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever; 
By  the  gray  woods — by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp; 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 
Where  dwell  the  ghouls; 
By  each  spot  the  most  unholy, 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy, — 


DREAMLAND.  87 

There  the  traveller  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past, — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by, — 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth— and  Heaven. 

IV. 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 

'Tis  a  peaceful,  soothing  region; 

For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 

'Tis— O,  'tis  an  Eldorado  ! 

But  the  traveller,  travelling  through  it, 

May  not,  dare  not  openly  view  it; 

Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 

To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed ; 

So  wills  its  king,  who  hath  forbid 

The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid ; 

And  thus  the  sad  soul  that  here  passes 

Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 

v. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 
From  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 


88 


THE    CITY    IN    THE    SEA. 


Lo  !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West ; 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad,  and  the  worst  and 

the  best, 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not !) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 


No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town, 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free — 


THE   CITY    IN   THE   SEA.  89 

Up  domes — up  spires — up  kingly  halls — 
Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers — 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine, 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 
That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 
While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 


in. 

There  open  fanes,  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves ; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, — 

Not  the  gaily-jewelled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed ; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas  ! 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass ; 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea ; 

No  heaving  hints  that  winds  have  been 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene, 


90  THE   CITY    IN   THE   SEA. 

IV. 

But,  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air ! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide, — 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  heaven. 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low : 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 

Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 

Shall  do  it  reverence. 


TO    ONE    IN    PARADISE. 


THOU  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 
A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 

All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 


Ji. 


Ah,  dream,  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  future  cries, 
"  On  !  on  !  "—but  o'er  the  past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies, 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast ! 


in. 

For,  alas,  alas,  with  me 
The  light  of  life  is  o'er  ! 
"No  more — no  more — no  more — ' 


92  TO    ONE    IN    PARADISE. 

(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 
To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 

Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 
Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar ! 


And  all  my  days  are  trances, 
And  all  my  nightly  dreams 

Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 
And  where  thy  footstep  gleams ; 

In  what  ethereal  dances, 
Bv  what  eternal  streams. 


E  L  D  O  R  A  D  O. 


GAILY  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 


94  ELDORADO. 

II. 

But  he  grew  old, 
This  knight  so  bold, 

And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 
Fell,  as  he  found 
No  spot  of  ground 

That  looked  like  Eldorado. 


in. 

And  as  his  strength 
Failed  him  at  length, 

He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow ; 
"Shadow,"  said  he, 
"  Where  can  it  be, 

This  land  of  Eldorado  ?" 


IV. 

"  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride,  boldly  ride," 

The  Shade  replied, 
"  If  you  seek  for  Eldorado  ! " 


95 


THE    VALLEY    OF    UNREST 


Once  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 

Where  the  people  did  not  dwell  : 

They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 

Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 

Nightly  from  their  azure  towers 

To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 

In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 

The  red  sunlight  lazily  lay. 

Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 

The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 

Nothing  there  is  motionless — 

Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 

Over  the  magic  solitude. 

Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 

That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 

Around  the  misty  Hebrides  ! 

Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 

That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  heaven 

Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even. 


96  THE   VALLEY   OF 


Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 
In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye  — 
( )ver  the  lilies  there  that  wave 
And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave  ! 
They  wave — from  out  their  fragrant  tops 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops ; 
They  weep — from  off  their  delicate  stems 
Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 


97 


A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM. 


TAKE  this  kiss  upon  the  brow ; 

And  in  parting  from  you  now, 

Thus  much  let  me  avow : 

You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night  or  in  a  day, 

In  a  vision  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone  ? 

All  that  we  see  or  seem 

Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 


ii. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf-tormented  shore ; 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand : 
How  few  !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep — while  I  weep  ! 


9**  A    DKKAM    WITHIN    A    DKKAM. 

( )  (Joel,  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp  t 
()  God,  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave  ? 
I  s  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream  ( 


99 


SILENCE. 


THERE  are  some  qualities,  some  incorporate  things, 

That  have  a  double  life,  which  thus  is  made 
A  type  of  that  twin  entity  which,  springs 

From  matter  and  light,  evinced  in  solid  and  shade. 
There  is  a  twofold  Silence — sea  and  shore- 
Body  and  soul.     One  dwells  in  lonely  places 
Newly  with  grass  o'ergrown ;  some  solemn  graces, 
Some  human  memories  and  tearful  lore, 
Render  him  terrorless:  his  name's  "No  more." 
He  is  the  corporate  Silence :  dread  him  not ! 

No  power  hath  he  of  evil  in  himself; 
But  should  some  urgent  fate  (untimely  lot !) 

Bring  thee  to  meet  his  shadow — nameless  elf, 
That  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath  trod 
No  foot  of  man,— commend  thyself  to  God  ! 


100 


THE   CONQUEROR   WORM. 


Lo  !  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years  ! 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 


Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly; 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things, 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  condor  wings 

Invisible  woe  ! 

in. 

That  motley  drama — O,  be  sure 
It  shall  not  be  forgot ; 


THE   CONQUEROR    WORM.  '*,'>','  I O I 

With  its  phantom  eh^seo  for  ever-nore 

By  a  crowd  \\idt  selife  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot; 
And  much  of  madness,  and  more  of  sin, 

And  horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 


But,  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude — 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude  ! 
It  writhes  ! — it  writhes  ! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 


Out,  out  are  the  lights— out  all ! 

And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm ; 
And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 


ICC; 


FOR    ANNIE. 


THANK  Heaven,  the  crisis, 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last; 
And  the  fever  called  "  living 

Is  conquered  at  last. 

ii. 

Sadly  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength. 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length : 
But  no  matter;  I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 


And  I  rest  so  composedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 


FOR   ANNIE.  103 


The  moaning  and  groaning, 
The  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart : — ah,  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing ! 

v. 

The  sickness,  the  nausea, 

The  pitiless  pain, 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain— 
With  the  fever  called  "  living,1' 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

VI. 

And,  O  !  of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  naphthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst : 
I  have  drunk  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst :— 

VII. 

Of  a  water  that  flows 
With  a  lullaby  sound, 


104  FOR   ANNIK. 

From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 
Feet  under  ground— 

From  a  cavern  not  very  far 
Down  under  ground. 

VIII. 

And,  ah  !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed : 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed— 
And,  to  sleep)  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

IX. 

My  tantalised  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes, 

Forgetting,  or  never 
Regretting,  its  roses  — 

Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses. 

x. 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odour 

About  it,  of  pansies — 


FOR    ANNIE.  10.5 


A  rosemary  odour, 

Commingled  with  pansies- 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 


And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie — 
Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

xir. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

XIII. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished 

She  covered  me  warm, 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 


100  FOR   ANN  IK. 

XIV. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
Knowing  her  love, 

That  you  fancy  me  dead  ; 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly 

Now  in  my  bed, 
With  her  love  at  my  breast, 

That  you  fancy  me  dead— 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 


xv. 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

( )f  the  love  of  my  Annie — 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


BRIDAL    BALLAD. 


i. 
THE  ring  is  on  my  hand, 

And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow ; 
Satins  and  jewels  grand 
Are  all  at  my  command, 

And  I  am  happy  now. 

II. 

And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well ; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow, 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell, 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 
And  who  is  happy  now. 

in. 

But  he  spoke  to  reassure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  reverie  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  churchyard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  him  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 
"  O,  I  am  happy  now  ! " 


BRIDAL    BALLAD. 


IV. 


And  thus  the  words  were  spoken, 
And  this  the  plighted  vow; 

And  though  my  faith  be  broken, 

And  though  my  heart  be  broken, 

Behold  the  golden  token 
That  proves  me  happy  now. 


Would  God  I  could  awaken  ! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how, 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken, — 
Lest  the  dead  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 


I  S  R  A  F  E  I.J 


IN  heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute  ;" 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  angel  Israfel; 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

*  "And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,  and 
who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures." — Koran. 


110  ISRAFKL. 


Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 
The  enamoured  Moon 

Blushes  with  love ; 
While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 
(With  the  rapid  Pleiades  even, 
Which  were  seven) 
Pauses  in  heaven. 


And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings,— 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 


But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty— 
Where  Love's  a  gro\vn-up  god — 

Where  the  houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 


ISRAFEL.  T  1  I 

V. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest : 
Merrily  live  and  long  ! 

VI. 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measure  suit ; 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervour  of  thy  lute : 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

VII. 

Yes,  heaven  is  thine ;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 

Our  flowers  are  merely  flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

VIII. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 


112  ISRAFKL. 


He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  mv  lyre  within  the  skv. 


T  O    F 


BELOVVED  !  amid  the  earnest  woes 
That  crowd  around  my  early  path 

(Drear  path,  alas  !  where  grows 

Not  even  one  lonely  rose), 
My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 

In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 

An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 

ii. 

And  thus  thy  memory  is  to  me 
Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 

In  some  tumultuous  sea — 

Some  ocean,  throbbing  far  and  free 
With  storms — but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest  skies  continually 

Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 


I  HEKD  not  that  my  earthly  lot 

Hath  little  of  earth  in  it; 
That  years  of  love  have  been  forgot 

In  the  hatred  of  a  minute : 
I  mourn  not  that  the  desolate 

Are  happier,  sweet,  than  I ; 
But  that  you  sorrow  for  my  fate, 

Who  am  a  passer-by. 


SCENES   FROM   "POLITIAN," 

An  unpublished  Drama  ; 


AND 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


NOTE  TO  "POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH." 


Private  reasons — some  of  which  have  reference  to  the  sin  <>t 
plagiarism,  and  others  to  the  date  of  Tennyson's  first  poems — 
have  induced  me,  after  some  hesitation,  to  republish  these,  the 
crude  compositions  of  my  earliest  boyhood.  They  are  printed 
verbatim,  without  alteration  from  the  original  edition,  the  date 
of  which  is  too  remote  to  be  judiciously  acknowledged. — E.  A.  1'. 

His  first  publication,  I  believe,  was  as  early  as  1827.  — Ei>. 


SCENES    FROM    "POLITIAN.5 


I. 
ROME. — A  hall  in  a  palace.     ALESSANDRA  and  CASTIGLIONE. 

Aless.  Thou  art  sad,  Castiglione. 

Cas.  Sad  ! — not  I. 

( ),  I'm  the  happiest,  happiest  man  in  Rome : 
A  few  days  more,  thou  knowest,  my  Alessandra, 
Will  make  thee  mine.     O,  I  am  very  happy ! 

*"Politian"    was   a  juvenile   production,   and   is    the    least 
meritorious  work  Poe  has  left. — ED. 


II  SCENES    FROM    POLIT1AN. 

Aless.  Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way  of  showing 
Thy  happiness.     What  ails  thee,  cousin  of  mine  ( 
Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply  ? 

Cas.  Did  I  sigh  I 

I  was  not  conscious  of  it.     It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly — a  most  silly  fashion,  I  have 
WThen  I  am  very  happy.     Did  I  sigh?  (sighing.} 

A/ess.  Thou  didst.     Thou  art  not  well.     Thou  has 

indulged 

Too  much  of  late,  and  I  am  vexed  to  see  it. 
Late  hours  and  wine,  Castiglione, — these 
Will  ruin  thee.     Thou  art  already  altered— 
Thy  looks  are  haggard :  nothing  so  wears  away 
The  constitution  as  late  hours  and  wine. 

Cas.  (musing)  Nothing,  fair  cousin,   nothing — not 

even  deep  sorrow — 
Wears  it  away  like  evil  hours  and  wine. 
I  will  amend. 

A  less.         Do  it.     I  would  have  thee  drop 
Thy  riotous  company  too — fellows  low-born 

III  suit  the  like  with  old  Di  Broglio's  heir 
And  Alessandra's  husband. 

Cas.  I  will  drop  them. 

A/ess.  Thou  wilt — thou  must!     Attend  thou  also 

more 

To  thy  dress  and  equipage, — they  are  over  plain 
For  thy  lofty  rank  and  fashion  :  much  depends 
Upon  appearances. 


SCENES    FROM    POLIT1AN.  119 

Cas.  I'll  see  to  it. 

A  less.  Then  see  to  it !     Pay  more  attention,  sir, 
To  a  becoming  carriage :  much  thou  wantest 
In  dignity. 

Cas.  Much,  much — O,  much  I  want 
In  proper  dignity. 

Aless.  (haughtily}  Thou  mockest  me,  sir. 

Cas.  (abstractedly)  Sweet,  gentle  Lalage  ! 

Aless.  Heard  I  aright  ] 

I  speak  to  him — he  speaks  of  Lalage  ! 
Sir  count !  (places  her  hand  on  his  shoulder)  what,  art 

thou  dreaming  ?     He's  not  well  ! 
What  ails  thee,  sir  ? 

Cas.  (starting)  Cousin  ! — fair  cousin  ! — madam  ! 
I  crave  thy  pardon — indeed,  I  am  not  well. 
Your  hand  from  off  my  shoulder,  if  you  please. 
This  air  is  most  oppressive. — Madam — the  duke  ! 

Enter  Di  BROGLIO. 

Di  Brog.  My  son,  I've  news  for  thee. — Hey,  what's 

the  matter  ]  (observing  Alessandra. ) 
I'  the  pouts  '?     Kiss  her,  Castiglione  ! — kiss  her, 
You  dog !  and  make  it  up,  I  say,  this  minute. 
I've  news  for  you  both :  Politian  is  expected 
Hourly  in  Rome — Politian,  Earl  of  Leicester. 
We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.     'Tis  his  first  visit 
To  the  imperial  city. 


I  -?0  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 

A/ess.  What!  Politian 

( )f  Britain,  Earl  of  Leicester  ] 

Di  Brog.  The  same,  my  love. 

We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.     A  man  quite  young 
In  years,  but  gray  in  fame.     I  have  not  seen  him, 
But  rumour  speaks  of  him  as  of  a  prodigy 
Pre-eminent  in  arts,  and  arms,  and  wealth, 
And  high  descent.     We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding. 

Aless.  I  heard  much  of  this  Politian. 
(ray,  volatile,  and  giddy,  is  he  not, 
And  little  given  to  thinking  1 

Di  Brog.  Far  from  it,  love. 

No  branch,  they  say,  of  all  philosophy 
So  deep  abstruse  he  has  not  mastered  it : 
Learned  as  few  are  learned. 

Aless.  Tis  very  strange  ! 

I  have  known  men  have  seen  Politian, 
And  sought  his  company.     They  speak  of  him 
As  of  one  who  entered  madly  into  life, 
Drinking  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs. 

Cas.  Ridiculous  !     Now  /have  seen  Politian, 
And  know  him  well — nor  learned  nor  mirthful  he. 
He  is  a  dreamer,  and  a  man  shut  out 
From  common  passions. 

Di  Brog.  Children,  we  disagree. 
Let  us  go  forth  and  taste  the  fragrant  air 
Of  the  garden.     Did  I  dream,  or  did  I  hear 
Politian  was  a  melancholy  man  ?  [Exeunt. 


SCENES    FROM    POL1TIAN. 


121 


II. 


ROME. — A  lady's  apartment,  with  a  window  open,  and  looking 
into  a  garden.  LALAGE,  in  deep  mourning,  reading  at  a  table, 
on  which  lies  some  books  and  a  hand-mirror.  In  the  back 
ground,  JACINTA  (a  servant-maid)  leans  carelessly  upon  a 
chair. 

Lai.  Jacinta  !  is  it  thou  1 
Jac.  {pertly}  Yes,  ma'am,  I'm  here. 

Lai.  I  did  not  know,  Jacinta,  you  were  in  waiting. 


I2J  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN". 

Sit  down :  —let  not  my  presence  trouble  you. 
Sit  down : — for  I  am  humble,  most  humble. 

fac.  (aside]  Tis  time. 

\Jacinta  seats  herself  in  a  side-long  manner  upon  the 
chair,  resting  her  elbows  upon  the  back,  and  regard 
ing  her  mistress  with  a  contemptuous  look.  /Midge 
continues  to  read. 

Lai.  "It  in  another  climate,  so  he  said, 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  i'  this  soil. 

[Pauses,  turns  over  some  leaves,  and  resumes. 

No  lingering  winters  there,  nor  snow  nor  shower ; 

But  Ocean  ever  to  refresh  mankind 

Breathes  the  shrill  spirit  of  the  western  wind." 

O,  beautiful !  most  beautiful ! — how  like 

To  what  my  fevered  soul  doth  dream  of  heaven  ! 

( )  happy  land  !  (pauses.)    She  died  ! — the  maiden  died  ! 

( ),  still  more  happy  maiden  who  couldst  die  !— 

Jacinta ! 

\Jacinto  returns  no  annver,  and  I. alage  presently 
resumes. 

Again  ! — a  similar  tale 
Told  of  a  beauteous  dame  beyond  the  sea. 
Thus  speaketh  one   Ferdinand,  in  the  words  of  the 

play,- 

"She  died  full  young" — one  Bossola  answers  him — 
"I  think  not  so;  her  infelicity 

Seemed  to  have  years  too  many."     Ah,  luckless  lady  !- 
Jacinta  !  (Still  no  answer.) 


SCENES    FROM    POLTTIAN.  123 

Here's  a  far  sterner  story, 
But  like — O,  very  like  in  its  despair, 
Of  that  Egyptian  queen,  winning  so  easily 
A  thousand  hearts — losing  at  length  her  own. 
She  died.     Thus  endeth  the  history,  and  her  maids 
Lean  over  her  and  weep, — two  gentle  maids 
With  gentle  names — Eiros  and  Charmion  ! 
Rainbow  and  Dove  ! — Jacinta  ! 

Jac.  (pettishly]  Madam,  what  is  it  1 

LaL  Wilt  thou,  my  good  Jacinta,  be  so  kind 
As  go  down  in  the  library,  and  bring  me 
The  holy  evangelists  1 

Jac.  Pshaw !  \_Exit. 

Lai.  If  there  be  balm 

For  the  wounded  spirit  in  Gilead,  it  is  there : 
Dew  in  the  night-time  of  my  bitter  trouble 
Will  there  be  found, — "  dew  sweeter  far  than  that 
Which  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill." 

Re-enter  JACINTA,  and  throws  a  volume  on  the  table. 

Jac.  There,  ma'am,   's  the  book. — Indeed  she   is 

very  troublesome.     (Aside.) 
Lai.  (astonished)   What   didst   thou   say,   Jacinta'? 

Have  I  done  aught 

To  grieve  thee  or  to  vex  thee'? — I  am  sorry; 
For  thou  hast  served  me  long,  and  ever  been 
Trustworthy  and  respectful.  \Resumes  her  reading- 

fac.  I  can't  believe 


1^4  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 

She   has    any   more  jewels;    no,    no;    she   gave    me 

all.     (Aside.} 

Lai.  What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ?     Now,  I  be 
think  me, 

Thou  hast  not  spoken  lately  of  thy  wedding. 
How  fares  good  Ugo — and  when  is  it  to  be? 
Can  I  do  aught]     Is  there  no  further  aid 
Thou  needest,  Jacinta  ? 

Jac.  Is  there  HQ  further  aid  \ 

That's  meant  for  me.    (Aside.} — I'm  sure,  madam,  you 

need  not 
Be  always  throwing  those  jewels  in  my  teeth. 

Lai.  Jewels,  Jacinta  !     Now,  indeed,  Jacinta, 
I  thought  not  of  the  jewels. 

Jac.  O,  perhaps  not ! 

Hut  then  I  might  have  sworn  it.     After  all, 
There's  Ugo  says  the  ring  is  only  paste, 
For  he's  sure  the  Count  Castiglione  never 
Would  have  given  a  real  diamond  to  such  as  you: 
And,  at  the  best,  I'm  certain,  madam,  you  cannot 
Have  use  for  jewels  now.     But  I  might  have  sworn 
it.  \Exit. 

[Lalage  bursts  into  tears,  and  leans  her  head  upon  the 
table ;  after  a  short  pause  raises  it. 

Lai.  Poor  Lalage  ! — and  is  it  come  to  this  ? 
Thy  servant-maid  !— but  courage  ! — 'tis  but  a  viper, 
Whom  thou  hast  cherished  to  sting  thee  to  the  soul. 

[  Taking  up  the  mirror. 


SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN.  125 

Ha  !  here  at  least 's  a  friend— too  much  a  friend 

In  earlier  clays — a  friend  v/ill  not  deceive  thee. 

Fair  mirror  and  true  I  now  tell  me  (for  thou  canst) 

A  tale — a  pretty  tale— and  heed  thou  not, 

Though  it  be  rife  with  woe.     It  answers  me. 

It  speaks  of  sunken  eyes,  and  wasted  cheeks, 

And  beauty  long  deceased ;  remembers  me 

Of  joy  departed — hope,  the  seraph  hope, 

Inurned  and  entombed ;  now  in  a  tone 

Lo\v,  sad,  and  solemn,  but  most  audible, 

Whispers  of  early  grave  untimely  yawning 

For  ruined  maid.     Fair  mirror  and  true  ! — thou  liest 

not; 

Thou  hast  no  end  to  gain,  no  heart  to  break : 
Castiglione  lied,  who  said  he  loved : 
Thou  true,  he  false  ! — false  ! — false  ! 

[While  she  speaks,  a  Monk  enters  her  apartment,  and 
approaches  unobserved. 

Monk.  Refuge  thou  hast, 

Sweet  daughter,  in  heaven.     Think  of  eternal  things  : 
Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray. 

Lai.  (arising  hurriedly']  I  cannot  pray.     My  soul  is 

at  war  with  God. 

The  frightful  sounds  of  merriment  below 
Disturb  my  senses.     Go,  I  cannot  pray, 
The  sweet  airs  from  the  garden  worry  me. 
Thy  presence  grieves  me— go;  thy  priestly  raiment 


1  26  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 

Fills  me  with  dread,  thy  ebony  crucifix 
With  horror  and  awe. 

Monk.  Think  of  thy  precious  soul. 

Lai.  Think  of  my  early  days ;  think  of  my  father 
And  mother  in  heaven ;  think  of  our  quiet  home, 
And  the  rivulet  that  ran  before  the  door ; 
Think  of  my  little  sisters— think  of  them ; 
And  think  of  me — think  of  my  trusting  love 
And  confidence — his  vows — my  ruin; — think,  think 
( )f  my  unspeakable  misery. — Begone. 
Yet,   stay, — yet,   stay.      What   was  it  thou   saidst   of 

prayer 

And  penitence  ?     Didst  thou  not  speak  of  faith 
And  vows  before  the  throne '? 

Monk.  I  did. 

Lai.  Tis  well. 

There  is  a  vow  where  fitting  should  be  made — 
A  sacred  vow,  imperative  and  urgent, — 
A  solemn  vow ! 

Monk.  Daughter,  this  zeal  is  well. 

Lai.  Father,  this  zeal  is  anything  but  well. 
Hast  thou  a  crucifix  fit  for  this  thing  ? 
A  crucifix  whereon  to  register 

This  sacred  vow  ?  \He  hands  her  his  own. 

Not  that !     O,  no  !  no  !  no  ! —  [Shuddering. 

Not  that ! — not  that !     I  tell  thee,  holy  man, 
Thy  raiments  and  thy  ebony  cross  affright  me ; 


SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN.  127 

Stand  back :  I  have  a  crucifix  myself— 
/have  a  crucifix.     Methinks  'twere  fitting 
The  deed,  the  vow,  the  symbol  of  the  deed 
And  the  deed's  register,  should  tally,  father. 

[Draws  a  cross-handled  dagger,  and  raises  it  on  high. 
Behold  the  cross  wherewith  a  vow  like  mine 
Is  written  in  heaven. 

Monk.  Thy  words  are  madness,  daughter, 
And  speak  a  purpose  unholy ;  thy  lips  are  livid — 
Thine  eyes  are  wild;  tempt  not  the  wrath  divine. 
Pause,  ere  too  late.     O,  be  not — be  not  rash; 
Swear  not  the  oath — O,  swear  it  not ! 

LaL  'Tis  sworn. 


III. 

An  apartment  in  a  palace.     POLITIAN  and  BALDAZZAR. 

Bal.  Arouse  thee  now,  Politian ; 
Thou  must  not — nay,  indeed,  indeed,  thou  shalt  not 
Give  way  unto  these  humours.     Be  thyself; 
Shake  off  the  idle  fancies  that  beset  thee, 
And  live,  for  now  thou  diest. 

Pol.  Not  so,  Baldazzar. 

Surely  I  live. 

BaL         Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  thus. 

Pol.  Baldazzar,  it  doth  grieve  me 


I  28  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 

To  give  thee  cause  for  grief,  my  honoured  friend. 
Command  me,  sir.     What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ? 
At  thy  behest  I  will  shake  off  that  nature 
Which  from  my  forefathers  I  did  inherit, 
Which  with  my  mother's  milk  I  did  imbibe, 
And  be  no  more  Politian,  but  some  other 
Command  me,  sir. 

Bal.  To  the  field,  then — to  the  field ; 

To  the  senate  or  the  field. 

Pol.  Alas,  alas  ! 

There  is  an  imp  would  follow*  me  even  there : 
There  is  an  imp  hath  followed  me  even  there ! 
There  is — what  voice  was  that  I 

BaL  I  heard  it  not. 

I  heard  not  any  voice  except  thine  own, 
And  the  echo  of  thine  own. 

Pol.  Then  I  but  dreamed. 

Bal.  Give  not  thy  soul  to  dreams:  the  camp— the 

court 

Befit  thee;  fame  awaits  thee — glory  calls; 
And  her,  the  trumpet-tongued,  thou  wilt  not  hear 
In  hearkening  to  imaginary  sounds 
And  phantom  voices. 

Pol.  It  is  a  phantom  voice : 

I  )idst  thou  not  hear  it  then  1 

Bal.  I  heard  it  not. 

Pol.  Thou  heardst   it  not !      Baldazzar,  speak  no 
more 


SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN.  129 

To  me,  Politian,  of  thy  camps  and  courts. 

O,  I  am  sick,  sick,  sick,  even  unto  death, 

Of  the  hollow  and  high-sounding  vanities 

Of  the  populous  earth.     Bear  with  me  yet  awhile. 

We  have  been  boys  together — school-fellows, 

And  now  are  friends,  yet  shall  not  be  so  long ; 

For  in  the  Eternal  City  thou  shalt  do  me 

A  kind  and  gentle  office,  and  a  power — 

A  power  august,  benignant,  and  supreme — 

Shall  then  absolve  thee  of  all  further  duties 

Unto  thy  friend. 

Bal.  Thou  speakest  a  fearful  riddle 

I  will  not  understand. 

Pol.  Yet  now,  as  fate 

Approaches,  and  the  hours  are  breathing  low, 
The  sands  of  time  are  changed  to  golden  grains, 
And  dazzle  me,  Baldazzar.     Alas,  alas, 
I  cannot  die,  having  within  my  heart 
So  keen  a  relish  for  the  beautiful 
As  hath  been  kindled  within  it !     Methinks  the  air 
Is  balmier  now  than  it  was  wont  to  be ; 
Rich  melodies  are  floating  in  the  winds ; 
A  rarer  loveliness  bedecks  the  earth, 
And  with  a  holier  lustre  the  quiet  moon 
Sitteth  in  heaven. — Hist,  hist;  thou  canst  not  say 
Thou  nearest  not  now,  Baldazzar. 

Bal.  Indeed,  I  hear  not. 

Pol.  Not  hear  it !  listen  now — listen :  the  faintest 
sound,  i 


13°  SCENES    FROM    POL1TIAN. 

And  yet  the  sweetest,  that  ear  ever  heard : 
A  lady's  voice — and  sorrow  in  the  tone, 
Baldazzar,  it  oppresses  me  like  a  spell. 
Again,  again;  how  solemnly  it  falls 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts  !  that  eloquent  voice 
Surely  I  never  heard :  yet  it  were  well 
Had  I  but  heard  it  with  its  thrilling  tones 
In  earlier  days. 

Bal.  I  myself  hear  it  now. 

Be  still.     The  voice,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly, 
Proceeds  from  yonder  lattice,  which  you  may  see 
Very  plainly  through  the  window.     It  belongs — 
Does  it  not '? — unto  this  palace  of  the  duke  : 
The  singer  is  undoubtedly  beneath 
The  roof  of  his  excellency,  and  perhaps 
Is  even  that  Alessandra  of  whom  he  spoke 
As  the  betrothed  of  Castiglione, 
His  son  and  heir. 

Pol.  Be  still: — it  comes  again. 

Voice  {very  faintly?). 

And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 

As  for  to  leave  me  thus, 
Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 

As  for  to  leave  me  thus  \ 
Say  nay— say  nay  ! 


SCENES    FROM    POLTTIAN.  13! 

Bal.  The  song  is  English,  and  I  oft  have  heard  it 
In  merry  England, — never  so  plaintively. 
Hist,  hist;  it  comes  again. 

Voice  {more  loudly}* 
Is  it  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus, 
Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  'I 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ] 
Say  nay — say  nay  ! 

Bal.  Tis  hushed,  and  all  is  still. 

Pol.  All  is  not  still. 

Bal.  Let  us  go  down. 

Pol.  Go  down,  Baldazzar, — go. 

Bal.  The  hour  is  growing  late — the  duke  awaits 

us,— 

Thy  presence  is  expected  in  the  hall 
Below.— What  ails  thee,  Earl  Politian  1 

Voice  (distinctly?). 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  woe  among, 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong  ] 
Say  nay — say  nay  ! 

Bal.  Let  us  descend ; — 'tis  time.     Politian,  give 
These  fancies  to  the  wind.     Remember,  pray, 


1 32  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 

Your  bearing  lately  savoured  much  of  rudeness 
Unto  the  duke.     Arouse  thee,  and  remember. 

Pol.  Remember !     I  do.     Lead  on.     I  do  remem 
ber.  [GW;/v 
Let  us  descend.     Believe  me,  I  would  give, 
Freely  would  give,  the  broad  lands  of  my  earldom 
To  look  upon  the  face  hidden  by  yon  lattice, — 
"To  gaze  upon  that  veiled  face,  and  hear 
Once  more  that  silent  tongue." 

Bal.  Let  me  beg  you,  sir, 

Descend  with  me ;  the  duke  may  be  offended. 
Let  us  go  down,  I  pray  you. 

Voice  (loudly) • 
"  Say  nay — say  nay!" 

Pol.  (aside)  Tis  strange,— tis  very  strange  !     Me 

thought  the  voice 
Chimed  in  with  my  desires,  and  bade  me  stay. 

\Approaching  th?  window 

Sweet  voice,  I  heed  thee,  and  will  surely  stay. 
Now  be  this  fancy,  by  heaven,  or  be  it  fate, 
Still  will  I  not  descend.     Baldazzar,  make 
Apology  unto  the  duke  for  me : 
I  go  not  down  to-night. 

Bal.  Your  lordship's  pleasure 

Shall  be  attended  to.     Good  night,  Politian. 

Pol.  Good  night,  my  friend,  good  night. 


SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 


133 


IV. 


The  gardens  of  a  palace — Moonlight.     LALAGE  and  POLITIAN. 

Lai  And  dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  me  Politian  1 — dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  Lalage  1 — Ah,  woe— ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
This  mockery  is  most  cruel — most  cruel  indeed. 

Pol.  Weep  not ;  O,  sob  not  thus :  thy  bitter  tears 
Will  madden  me.     O,  mourn  not,  Lalage : 


134  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAX. 

Be  comforted.     I  know — I  know  it  all, 

And  still  I  speak  of  love.     Look  at  me,  brightest, 

And  beautiful  Lalage, — turn  here  thine  eyes. 

Thou  askest  me  if  I  could  speak  of  love, 

Knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  what  I  have  seen. 

Thou  askest  me  that — and  thus  I  answer  thee— 

Thus  on  my  bended  knee  I  answer  thee —    [Kneeling. 

Sweet  Lalage,  I  lore  thee — love  thee — lore  thee; 

Thro'  good  and  ill — thro'  weal  and  woe,  I  love  thee. 

Not  mother,  with  her  first-born  on  her  knee, 

Thrills  with  intenser  love  than  I  for  thee. 

Not  on  God's  altar,  in  any  time  or  clime, 

Burned  there  a  holier  fire  than  burneth  now 

Within  my  spirit  for  thee.     And  do  I  love  1      [Arising. 

Even  for  thy  woes  I  love  thee — even  for  thy  woes — 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  woes. 

Lai.  Alas,  proud  earl, 

Thou  dost  forget  thyself,  remembering  me. 
How,  in  thy  father's  halls,  among  the  maidens 
Pure  and  reproachless  of  thy  princely  line, 
Could  the  dishonoured  Lalage  abide  ? 
Thy  wife,  and  with  a  tainted  memory — 
My  seared  and  blighted  name,  how  would  it  tally 
With  the  ancestral  honours  of  thy  house, 
And  with  thy  glory  ? 

Pol.  Speak  not  to  me  of  glory. 

I  hate — I  loathe  the  name ;  I  do  abhor 
The  unsatisfactory  and  ideal  thing. 


SCENES    FROM    POLTTIAN.  135 

Art  thou  not  Lalage,  and  I  Politian  ? 

Do  I  not  love  ? — art  thou  not  beautiful  1— 

What  need  we  more  ?     Ha,  glory  ! — now  speak  not 

of  it. 

By  all  I  hold  most  sacred  and  most  solemn — 
By  all  my  wishes  now,  my  fears  hereafter — 
By  all  I  scorn  on  earth,  and  hope  in  heaven — 
There  is  no  deed  I  would  more  glory  in, 
Than  in  thy  cause  to  scoff  at  this  same  glory, 
And  trample  it  under  foot.     What  matters  it— 
What  matters  it,  my  fairest  and  my  best, 
That  we  go  down  unhonoured  and  forgotten 
Into  the  dust,  so  we  descend  together  ] 
Descend     together ;      and     then  —  and     then,     per 
chance — 

LaL  Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ?• 

Pol.  And  then,  perchance, 
Arise  together,  Lalage,  and  roam 
The  starry  and  quiet  dwellings  of  the  blest, 
And  still— 

Lai.      Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  I 

Pol.  And  still  together — together. 

Lai.  Now,  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Thou  lovest  me,  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  feel  thou  lovest  me  truly. 

Pol.  O  Lalage.       [Throwing  himself  upon  his  ki:ec. 
And  lovest  thou  me  ? 

Lai.  Hist,  hush;  within  the  gloom 


13"  SCENES    FROM    POLIT1AN. 

Of  yonder  trees  methought  a  figure  passed — 
A  spectral  figure,  solemn  and  slow  and  noiseless — 
Like  the  grim  shadow  Conscience,  solemn  and  noise 
less.  [ }  Talks  across  and  returns. 
\  was  mistaken;  'twas  but  a  giant  bough 
Stirred  by  the  autumn  wind.     Politian  ! 

Pol.   My  Lalage—  my  love,  why  art  thou  moved  ( 
Why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  1     Not  Conscience'  self, 
Far  less  a  shadow  which  thou  likenest  to  it, 
Should  shake   the   firm   spirit   thus.      But  the   night- 
wind 

Is  chilly,  and  these  melancholy  boughs 
Throw  over  all  things  a  gloom. 

J-al-  Politian, 

Thou  speakest  to  me  of  love.     Knowest  thou  the  land 
With  which  all  tongues  are  busy — a  land  new  found — 
Miraculously  found  by  one  of  Genoa — 
A  thousand  leagues  within  the  golden  west  ? 
A  fairy-land  of  flowers  and  fruit  and  sunshine, 
And  crystal  lakes  and  over-arching  forests, 
And  mountains,  around  whose  towering  summits  the 

winds 

Of  heaven  untrammelled  flow, — which  air  to  breathe 
Is  happiness  now,  and  will  be  freedom  hereafter 
In  days  that  are  to  come } 

Pol.  O,  wilt  thou— wilt  thou 

Fly  to  that  paradise,  my  Lalage, — wilt  thou 
Fly  thither  with  me  ?     There  care  shall  be  forgotten, 


SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN.  I  '7 

And  sorrow  shall  be  no  more,  and  Eros  be  all, 
And  life  shall  then  be  mine,  for  I  will  live 
For  thee  and  in  thine  eyes;  and  thou  shalt  be 
No  more  a  mourner,  but  the  radiant  joys 
Shall  wait  upon  thee,  and  the  angel  Hope 
Attend  thee  ever;  and  I  will  kneel  to  thee, 
And  worship  thee,  and  call  thee  my  beloved, 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  love,  my  wife, 
My  all !     O,  wilt  thou,  wilt  thou,  Lalage, 
Fly  thither  with  me  ? 

Lai.  A  deed  is  to  be  done  — 

Castiglione  lives. 

Pol.  And  he  shall  die.  [Exit. 

La!,  (after  a  pause)          And — he — shall — die. — 

Alas! 

Castiglione  die  ?     Who  spoke  the  words '? 
Where  am  1 ?     What  was  it  he  said  ?— Politian, 
Thou  art  not  gone — thou  art  not  gone,  Politian ; 
I  feel  thou  art  not  gone — yet  dare  not  look, 
Lest  I  behold  thee  not ;  thou  couldst  not  go 
With  those  words  upon  thy  lips.     O,  speak  to  me, 
And  let  me  hear  thy  voice;  one  word — one  word, 
To  say  thou  art  not  gone,— one  little  sentence, 
To  say  how  thou  dost  scorn — how  thou  dost  hate 
My   womanly    weakness.      Ha,    ha !     thou    art    not 

gone. 

O,  speak  to  me  !     I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  go ; 
I  knew  thou  wouldst  not,  couldst  not,  durst  not  go. 


J3^  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 

Villain,  thou  art  not  gone — thou  mockest  me  ! 

And   thus  I  clutch  thee— thus ! — He  is  gone,  he  is 

gone — 
Gone— gone  !      Where    am    I  \ — Tis   well — 'tis    very 

well : 

So  that  the  blade  be  keen — the  blow  be  sure, 
Tis  well,  'tis  very  well.     Alas,  alas  ! 


V. 

The  suburbs.     POUTIAN  alone. 

Pol.  This  weakness  grows  upon  me.     I  am  faint, 
And  much  I  fear  me,  ill.     It  will  not  do 
To  die  ere  I  have  lived.— Stay,  stay  thy  hand, 
( )  Azrael,  yet  awhile.     Prince  of  the  powers 
Of  darkness  and  the  tomb,  O,  pity  me  ! 
( ),  pity  me  !  let  me  not  perish  now, 
In  the  budding  of  my  paradisal  hope  ! 
(iive  me  to  live  yet — yet  a  little  while: 
'Tis  I  who  pray  for  life— I  who  so  late 
Demanded  but  to  die  !— What  sayeth  the  count  \ 

Enter  BALDAZZAR. 

Bal.  That,   knowing   no   cause   of  quarrel    or  of 

feud 
Between  the  Earl  Politian  and  himself, 


SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN.  139 

He  doth  decline  your  cartel. 

Pol.  What  didst  thou  say  \ 

What  answer  was  it  you  brought  me,  good  Baldazzar  \ 
With  what  excessive  fragrance  the  zephyr  comes 
Laden  from  yonder  bowers  ! — a  fairer  day, 
Or  one  more  worthy  Italy,  methinks 
No  mortal  eyes  have  seen. —  What  said  the  count  ? 

J3al.  That  he,  Castiglione,  not  being  aware 
Of  any  feud  existing,  or  any  cause 
Of  quarrel,  between  your  lordship  and  himself, 
Cannot  accept  the  challenge. 

Pol.  It  is  most  true — 

All  this  is  very  true.     When  saw  you,  sir, — 
When  saw  you  now,  Baldazzar,  in  the  frigid 
Ungenial  Britain,  which  we  left  so  lately, 
A  heaven  so  calm  as  this — so  utterly  free 
From  the  evil  taint  of  clouds  1 — And  he  did  say? — 

BaL  No  more,  my  lord,  than  I  have  told  you,  sir : 
The  Count  Castiglione  will  not  fight, 
Having  no  cause  for  quarrel. 

Pol.  Now  this  is  true — 

All  very  true.     Thou  art  my  friend,  Baldazzar, 
And  I  have  not  forgotten  it :  thou  'It  do  me 
A  piece  of  service.     Wilt  thou  go  back  and  say 
Unto  this  man,  that  I,  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Hold  him  a  villain  ] — thus  much,  I  prithee,  say 
Unto  the  count :  it  is  exceeding  just 
He  should  have  cause  for  quarrel. 


140  SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN. 

Bal.  My  lord  !— my  friend  !— 

Pol.  (aside]  Tis  he  ! — he  comes  himself !     (Aloud} 

Thou  reasonest  well. 

I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say — not  send  the  message. 
Well,  I  will  think  of  it.— I  will  not  send  it. 
Now,  prithee,  leave  me :  hither  doth  come  a  person 
With  whom  affairs  of  a  most  private  nature 
I  would  adjust. 

Bal.  I  go :  to-morrow  we  meet — 

Do  we  not  I — at  the  Vatican. 

Pol.  At  the  Vatican. 

{Exit  Baldazzar. 

Enter  CASTIGLIONE. 

Cas.  The  Earl  of  Leicester  here  ! 

Pol.  I  am  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  thou  seest— 
Dost  thou  not  ? — that  I  am  here. 

Cas.  My  lord,  some  strange, 

Some  singular  mistake — misunderstanding — 
Hath,  without  doubt,  arisen:  thou  hast  been  urged 
Thereby,  in  heat  of  anger,  to  address 
Some  words  most  unaccountable,  in  writing, 
To  me,  Castiglione;  the  bearer  being 
Baldazzar,  Duke  of  Surrey.     I  am  aware 
Of  nothing  which  might  warrant  thee  in  this  thing, 
Having  given  thee  no  offence.     Ha  ! — am  I  right.' 
Twas  a  mistake  1 — undoubtedly — we  all 
Do  err  at  times. 


SCENES    FROM    POLITIAN.  141 

Pol.  Draw,  villain,  and  prate  no  more  ! 

Cas.  Ha  ! — draw  i — and  villain  ?      Have   at   thee, 

then,  at  once, 
Proud  earl  !  \Draws. 

Pol.  (drawing)  Thus  to  the  expiatory  tomb, 
Untimely  sepulchre,  I  do  devote  thee, 
In  the  name  of  Lalage  ! 

Cas.  (letting  fall  his  sword,  and  recoiling  to  the  ex 
tremity  of  the  stage]  Of  Lalage  ! 
Hold  off  thy  sacred  hand  ! — A  vaunt,  I  say  ! 
Avaunt !  I  will  not  fight  thee— indeed,  I  dare  not. 
Pol.  Thou  wilt  not  fight  with  me — didst  say,  sir 

count '? 

Shall  I  be  baffled  thus  ? — now  this  is  well. 
I  )idst  say  thou  darest  not  ?  ha  ! 

Cas.  I  dare  not — dare  not : 

Hold  off  thy  hand.     With  that  beloved  name 
So  fresh  upon  thy  lips,  I  will  not  fight  thee : 
I  cannot — dare  not. 

Pol.  Now,  by  my  halidom, 

I  do  believe  thee ; — coward,  I  do  believe  thee. 

Cas.  Ha  !— coward  !— this  may  not  be. 

[Clutches  his  sword  and  staggers  toward  Politian  ; 
but  his  pin-pose' is  changed  before  reaching  him, 
and  he  falls  upon  his  knee  at  the  feet  of  the  earl. 

Alas  !  my  lord, 

It  is— it  is  most  true.     In  such  a  cause 
1  am  the  veriest  coward.     O,  pity  me  ! 


I  4-  SCENES    FROM    POL1TIAX. 

Pol.  (greatly  softened)    Alas !  I  do ;  indeed  I  pity 
thee. 

Cas.  And  Lalage — 

Pol.  Scoundrel,  arise,  and  die  ! 

Cas.   It  needeth  not  be:  thus — thus — O,  let  me 

die 

Thus  on  my  bended  knee.     It  were  most  fitting 
That  in  this  deep  humiliation  I  perish. 
For  in  the  fight  I  will  not  raise  a  hand 
Against  thee,  Earl  of  Leicester.     Strike  thou  home. 

\Baring  Jiis  bosom. 

Here  is  no  let  or  hindrance  to  thy  weapon ; 
Strike  home.     I  will  not  fight  thee. 

Pol.  Now,  'sdeath  and  hell ! 
Am  I  not — am  I  not  sorely,  grievously  tempted 
To  take  thee  at  thy  word  '?     But,  mark  me,  sir; 
Think  not  to  fly  me  thus.     Do  thou  prepare 
For  public  insult  in  the  streets,  before 
The  eyes  of  the  citizens.     I'll  follow  thee — 
Like  an  avenging  spirit  I'll  follow  thee, 
Even  unto  death.     Before  those  whom  thou  lovest— 
Before  all  Rome,  I'll  taunt   thee,  villain, — I'll   taunt 

thee — 

1  )ost  hear  \ — with  cowardice  !    Thou  will  not  fight  me  I 
Thou  liest,  thou  shalt !  {Exit. 

Cas.  Now  this,  indeed,  is  just ! 

Most  righteous  and  most  just,  avenging  Heaven  .' 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   YOUTH. 


A  L    A  A  R  A  A  F/ 


PART   I. 

OH,  nothing  earthly  save  the  ray 
(Thrown  back  from  flowers)  of  beauty's  eye, 
As  in  those  gardens  where  the  day 
Springs  from  the  gems  of  Circassy ; — 

*  A  star  was  discovered  by  Tycho  Brahe,  which  appeared 
suddenly  in  the  heavens ;  attained  in  a  few  days  a  brilliancy 
surpassing  that  of  Jupiter;  then  as  suddenly  disappeared,  and 
has  never  been  seen  since. 


'44  AL   AARAAF. 

Oh,  nothing  earthly  save  the  thrill 
Of  melody  in  woodland  rill, 
Or  (music  of  the  passion-hearted) 
Joy's  voice  so  peacefully  departed, 
That,  like  the  murmur  in  the  shell, 
Its  echo  dwelleth  and  will  dwell  :— 
Oh,  nothing  of  the  dross  of  ours — 
Yet  all  the  beauty— all  the  flowers 
That  list  our  love,  and  deck  our  bowers- 
Adorn  yon  world  afar,  afar — • 
The  wandering  star. 

Twas  a  sweet  time  for  Nesace ;  for  there 
Her  world  lay  lolling  on  the  golden  air, 
Near  four  bright  suns— a  temporary  rest— 
An  oasis  in  desert  of  the  blest. 
Away,  away,  'mid  seas  of  rays  that  roll 
Empyrean  splendour  o'er  th'  unchained  soul— 
The  soul  that  scarce  (the  billows  are  so  dense) 
Can  struggle  to  its  destined  eminence — 
To  distant  spheres,  from  time  to  time  she  rode, 
And  late  to  ours,  the  favour'd  one  of  God ; 
But,  now,  the  ruler  of  an  anchor'd  realm, 
She  throws  aside  the  sceptre — leaves  the  helm, 
And,  amid  incense  and  high  spiritual  hymns, 
Laves  in  quadruple  light  her  angel  limbs. 

Now,  happiest,  loveliest  in  yon  lovely  earth, 
Whence  sprang  the  "idea  of  beauty"  into  birth 


'  '.  ^  V,,  \* 

f  '      -?fcl     -' 

:t^.-v-- 


>. 


I 


AL   AARAAF. 


"  All  hurriedly  she  knelt  upon  a  bed 
Of  flowers:  of  lilies  such  as  reur'U  the  head." 

"The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Uprcar'd  its  purple  stem  around  her  km-i->." 


AL    AARAAF.  145 

(Falling  in  wreathes  through  many  a  startled  star, 

Like  woman's  hair  'mid  pearls,  until  afar 

It  lit  on  hills  Achaian,  and  there  dwelt), 

She  looked  into  infinity — and  knelt. 

Rich  clouds  for  canopies  about  her  curled  — 

Fit  emblems  of  the  model  of  her  world — 

Seen  but  in  beauty— not  impeding  sight 

Of  other  beauty  glittering  through  the  light ; 

A  wreath  that  twined  each  starry  form  around, 

And  all  the  opaled  air  in  colour  bound. 

All  hurriedly  she  knelt  upon  a  bed 
Of  flowers:  of  lilies  such  as  reared  the  head 
On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato,*  and  sprang 
So  eagerly  around  about  to  hang 
Upon  the  flying  footsteps  of — deep  pride — 
Of  her  t  who  loved  a  mortal — and  so  died. 
The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Upreared  its  purple  stem  around  her  knees: 
And  gemmy  flower,{  of  Trebizond  misnamed, 
Inmate  of  highest  stars,  where  erst  it  shamed 
All  other  loveliness :  its  honeyed  dew 
(The  fabled  nectar  that  the  heathen  knew) 
Deliriously  sweet,  was  dropped  from  heaven, 
And  fell  on  gardens  of  the  unforgiven 

*  On  Santa  Maura — olim  Deucadia.  t  Sappho. 

£  This  flower  is  much  noticed  by  Leuwenhoek  and  Tourne- 
fort.     The  bee  feeding  upon  its  blossom  becomes  intoxicated. 
K 


M  AL   AARAAF. 

In  Trebizond;  and  on  a  sunny  flower, 
So  like  its  own  above,  that,  to  this  hour, 
It  still  remaineth,  torturing  the  bee 
With  madness  and  unwonted  reverie : 
In  heaven  and  all  its  environs,  the  leaf 
And  blossom  of  the  fairy  plant,  in  grief 
Disconsolate  linger — grief  that  hangs  her  head, 
Repenting  follies  that  full  long  have  fled, 
Heaving  her  white  breast  to  the  balmy  air, 
Like  guilty  beauty,  chastened,  and  more  fair  : 
Nyctanthes,  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light 
She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night : 
And  Clytia*  pondering  between  many  a  sun, 
While  pettish  tears  adown  her  petals  run : 
And  that  aspiring  flower  t  that  sprang  on  earth 
And  died,  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth, 
Bursting  its  odorous  heart  in  spirit  to  wing 
Its  way  to  heaven,  from  garden  of  a  king: 


*  "Clytia — the  Chrysanthemum  Pentrianntn,  or,  to  employ  a 
better-known  term,  the  turnsol,  which  turns  continually  towards 
the  sun,  covers  itself,  like  Pent,  the  country  from  which  it  comes, 
with  dewy  clouds,  which  cool  and  refresh  its  flowers  during  the 
most  violent  heat  of  the  day." — B.  DE  ST.  PIERRE. 

+  "  There  is  cultivated  in  the  king's  garden  at  Paris,  a  species 
of  serpentine  aloes  without  prickles,  whose  large  and  beautiful 
flower  exhales  a  strong  odour  of  the  vanilla  during  the  time  of 
its  expansion,  which  is  very  short.  It  does  not  blow  till  towards 
the  month  of  July;  you  then  perceive  it  gradually  open  its 
petals,  expand  them,  fade,  and  die." — ST.  PIERRE. 


AL   AARAAF.  147 

And  Valisnerian  Lotus,*  thither  flown 
From  struggling  with  the  waters  of  the  Rhone  : 
And  thy  most  lovely  perfume,  Zante  !  t 
Isola  d'oro  !  Fior  di  Levante  ! 
And  the  Nelumbo  bud,  {  that  floats  for  ever 
With  Indian  Cupid  down  the  holy  river — 
Fair  flowers,  and  fairy  !  to  whose  care  is  given 
To  bear  the  goddess'  song  in  odours  up  to  heaven.§ 
"  Spirit  that  dwellest  where, 

In  the  deep  sky, 
The  terrible  and  fair 

In  beauty  vie : 
Beyond  the  line  of  blue — 

The  boundary  of  the  star, 
Which  turneth  at  the  view 

Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 

By  the  comets  who  were  cast 
From  their  pride  and  from  their  throne, 
To  be  drudges  to  the  last — 

*  There  is  found  in  the  Rhone  a  beautiful  lily  of  the  Valisne 
rian  kind.  Its  stem  will  stretch  to  the  length  of  three  or  four  feet, 
thus  preserving  its  head  above  water  in  the  swellings  of  the  river. 

"j"  The  hyacinth. 

£  It  is  a  fiction  of  the  Indians,  that  Cupid  was  first  seen 
floating  in  one  of  these  down  the  river  Ganges,  and  that  he  still 
loves  the  cradle  of  his  childhood. 

§  "And  golden  vials  full  of  odours,  which  are  the  prayers  of 
the  saints." — Rev.  of  St.  John. 


148  AL    AARAAF. 

To  be  carriers  of  fire 

(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire, 

And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part— 
Who  livest — that  we  know — 

In  eternity — we  feel — 
But  the  shadow  of  whose  brow 

What  spirit  shall  reveal  ? 
Though  the  beings  whom  thy  Nesace, 

Thy  messenger  hath  known, 
Have  dreamed  for  thy  infinity 

A  model  of  their  own  ;  * 
Thy  will  is  done,  O  God  ! 

The  star  hath  ridden  high 
Through  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rode 

Beneath  thy  burning  eye; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee — 

In  thought  that  can  alone 

*  The  Humanitarians  held  that  God  was  to  be  understood 
as  having  really  a  human  form. —  Vide  CLARKE'S  Scnnons,  vol.  i., 
p.  26,  fol.  edit. 

"The  drift  of  Milton's  argument  leads  him  to  employ  lan 
guage  which  would  appear,  at  first  sight,  to  verge  upon  their 
doctrine;  but  it  will  be  seen  immediately  that  he  guards  himself 
against  the  charge  of  having  adopted  one  of  the  most  ignorant 
errors  of  the  dark  ages  of  the  Church." — DR.  SUMXER'S  Xotes  on 
Milton's  Christian  Doctrine. 

This  opinion,  in  spite  of  many  testimonies  to  the  contrary, 
could  never  have  been  very  general.  Andeus,  a  Syrian  of  Meso 
potamia,  was  condemned  for  the  opinion  as  heretical.  He  lived 


AL   AARAAF.  149 

Ascend  thy  empire  and  so  be 
A  partner  of  thy  throne — 

By  winged  phantasy,* 
My  embassy  is  given, 

Till  secrecy  shall  knowledge  be 

In  the  environs  of  heaven." 
She  ceased,  and  buried  then  her  burning  cheek, 
Abashed,  amid  the  lilies  there,  to  seek 
A  shelter  from  the  fervour  of  His  eye ; 
For  the  stars  trembled  at  the  Deity. 
She  stirred  not,  breathed  not;  for  a  voice  was  there, 
How  solemnly  pervading  the  calm  air  ! 
A  sound  of  silence  on  the  startled  ear, 
Which  dreamy  poets  name  "the  music  of  the  sphere.'' 
Ours  is  a  world  of  words ;  quiet  we  call 
"Silence,"  which  is  the  merest  word  of  all. 

in  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  century.      His  disciples  were  called 
Anthropomorphites. —  Vide  Du  PIN. 

*  Among  Milton's  minor  poems  are  these  lines : — 
"Dicite  sacromm  presides  nemorum  Dece,  £c. 
Quis  ille  primus  cujus  ex  imagine 
Natura  solers  fmxit  humanum  genus  ? 
/Eternus,  incorruptus,  a^quaevus  polo, 
Unusque  et  universus  exemplar  Dei." 
And  afterwards, — 

"Non  qui  profundum  csecitas  lumen  dedit 
Dircaeus  augur  vidit  hunc  alto  sinu,"  &c. 
"  Seltsamen  Tochter  Jovis 
Seinem  Schosskinde 
Der  Phantasie."— GOETHE. 


15°  AL   AARAAF. 

All  nature  speaks,  and  ev'n  ideal  things 
Flap  shadov.y  sounds  from  visionary  wings ; 
But  ah  !  not  so  when  thus  in  realms  on  high 
The  eternal  voice  of  God  is  passing  by, 
And  the  red  winds  are  withering  in  the  sky. 

"What  though  in  worlds  which  sightless"'  cycles 

run, 

Linked  to  a  little  system  and  one  sun — 
Where  all  my  life  is  folly,  and  the  crowd 
Still  think  my  terrors  but  the  thunder-cloud, 
The  storm,  the  earthquake,  and  the  ocean  wrath, 
(Ah  !  will  they  cross  me  in  my  angrier  path  ?) 
What  though  in  worlds  which  own  a  single  sun 
The  sands  of  time  grow  dimmer  as  they  run, 
Yet  thine  is  my  resplendency,  so  given 
To  bear  my  secrets  through  the  upper  heaven. 
Leave  tenantless  thy  crystal  home,  and  fly 
With  all  thy  train  athwart  the  moony  sky — 
Apart — like  fire-flies  in  Sicilian  night,t 
And  wing  to  other  worlds  another  light ! 
Divulge  the  secrets  of  thy  embassy 
To  the  proud  orbs  that  twinkle — and  so  be 


*  "Sightless:  too  small  to  be  seen." — LEGGE. 

t  I  have  often  noticed  a  peculiar  movement  of  the  fire-Hies ; 
they  will  collect  in  a  body,  and  fly  off,  from  a  common  centre, 
into  innumerable  radii. 


AL    AARAAF. 

To  every  heart  a  barrier  and  a  ban, 
Lest  the  stars  totter  in  the  guilt  of  man  !" 
Uprose  the  maiden  in  the  yellow  night, 
The  single-mooned  eve;  on  earth  we  plight 
Our  faith  to  one  love,  and  one  moon  adore : 
The  birthplace  of  young  beauty  had  no  more. 
As  sprung  that  yellow  star  from  downy  hours, 
Uprose  the  maiden  from  her  shrine  of  flowers, 
And  bent  o'er  sheeny  mountain  and  dim  plain 
Her  way,  but  left  not  yet  her  Therasaean  reign.'"' 


PART  II. 

HIGH  on  a  mountain  of  enamelled  head- 
Such  as  the  drowsy  shepherd,  on  his  bed 
Of  giant  pasturage  lying  at  his  ease, 
Raising  his  heavy  eyelids,  starts  and  sees, 
With  many  a  muttered  "  hope  to  be  forgiven," 
What  time  the  moon  is  quadrated  in  heaven — 
Of  rosy  head,  that,  towering  far  away 
Into  the  sunlight  ether,  caught  the  ray 

*  Therasfea,  or  Therasea,  the  island  mentioned  by  Seneca, 
which,  in  a  moment,  arose  from  the  sea  to  the  eyes  of  astonished 
mariners. 


AL    AARAAF. 


( )f  sunken  suns  at  eve— at  noon  of  night, 

While  the  moon  danced  with  the  fair  stranger  light, 

Upreared  upon  such  height  arose  a  pile 

Of  gorgeous  columns  on  th'  unburdened  air. 


Flashing  from  Parian  marble  that  twin  smile 
Far  down  upon  the  wave  that  sparkled  there, 
And  nursled  the  young  mountain  in  its  lair. 
Of  molten  stars  their  pavement,*  such  as  fall 
Through  the  ebon  air,  besilvering  the  pall 

*  "  Some  star  which  from  the  ruined  roof 

Of  shaked  Olympus,  by  mischance,  did  fall." — MILTON. 


AL   AARAAF.  153 

Of  their  own  dissolution,  while  they  die- 
Adorning  then  the  dwellings  of  the  sky. 
A  dome,  by  linked  light  from  heaven  let  down, 
Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown ; 
A  window  of  one  circular  diamond,  there, 
Looked  out  above  into  the  purple  air; 
And  rays  from  God  shot  down  that  meteor  chain 
And  hallowed  all  the  beauty  twice  again, — 
Save  when  between  th'  empyrean  and  that  ring 
Some  eager  spirit  flapped  his  dusky  wing. 
But  on  the  pillars  seraph  eyes  have  seen 
The  dimness  of  this  world :  that  grayish  green 
That  Nature  loves  the  best  for  beauty's  grave 
Lurked  in  each  cornice,  round  each  architrave, 
And  every  sculptured  cherub  thereabout, 
That  from  his  marbled  dwelling  peered  out, 
Seemed  earthly  in  the  shadow  of  his  niche — 
Achaian  statues  in  a  world  so  rich  1 
Friezes  from  Tadmore  and  Persepolis,* 
From  Balbec,  and  the  stilly,  clear  abyss 
Of  beautiful  Gomorrah  1     Oh,  the  wave  t 
Is  now  upon  thee — but  too  late  to  save  ! 


*  Voltaire,  in  speaking  of  Persepolis,  says, — "Je  connois  bein 
I'admiration  qu'inspirent  ces  mines ;  mais  un  palais  §rige  au  pied 
d'une  chaine  des  rochers  steriis,  peut-il  6tre  un  chef-d'oeuvre  des 


t  "Oh,  the  wave!"     Ula  Deguisi  is  the  Turkish  appellation  ; 
hut  on  its  own  shores  it  is  called  Bahar  Loth,  or  Almotanah. 


154  AL   AARAAF. 

Sound  loves  to  revel  in  a  summer  night : 
Witness  the  murmur  of  the  gray  twilight 
That  stole  upon  the  ear  in  Eyraco,* 
( )f  many  a  wild  star-gazer  long  ago, 
That  stealeth  ever  on  the  ear  of  him 
Who  musing  gazeth  on  the  distance  dim, 
And  sees  the  darkness  coming  as  a  cloud — 
Is  not  its  form — its  voice — most  palpable  and  loud 

But  what  is  this  ?— it  cometh— and  it  brings 
A  music  with  it :  'tis  the  rush  of  wings  ! 
A  pause— and  then  a  sweeping,  falling  strain, 
And  Nesace  is  in  her  halls  again. 
From  the  wild  energy  of  wanton  haste 

Her  cheeks  were  flushing,  and  her  lips  apart; 


There  were  undoubtedly  more  than  two  cities  engulfed  in  the 
Dead  Sea,  In  the  valley  of  Sidim  were  five:  Adrah,  Zeboin,  Zoar, 
Sodom,  and  Gomorrah.  Stephen  of  Byzantium  mentions  eight, 
and  Strabo  thirteen  (engulfed) ;  but  the  last  ih  out  of  all  reason. 

It  is  said  [Tacitus,  Strabo,  Josephus,  Daniel  of  St.  Saba,  Nau, 
Maundrell,  Troilo,  D'Arvieux]  that,  after  an  excessive  drought, 
the  vestiges  of  columns,  walls,  £c.,  are  seen  above  the  surface. 
At  any  season,  such  remains  may  be  discovered  by  looking  down 
into  the  transparent  lake,  and  at  such  distances  as  would  argue 
the  existence  of  many  settlements  in  the  space  now  usurped  by 
the  "  asphaltites." 

*  Eyraco— Chaldea. 

1 1  have  often  thought  I  could  distinctly  hear  the  sound  of  the 
darkness  as  it  stole  over  the  horizon. 


AL   AARAAF.  1,55 

And  zone  that  clung  around  her  gentle  waist 

Had  burst  beneath  the  heaving  of  her  heart. 
Within  the  centre  of  that  hall  to  breathe 
She  paused  and  panted,  Zanthe  !  all  beneath 
The  fairy  light  that  kissed  her  golden  hair, 
And  longed  to  rest,  yet  could  but  sparkle  there  ! 

Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody  * 
To  happy  flowers  that  night,  and  tree  to  tree ; 
Fountains  were  gushing  music  as  they  fell 
In  many  a  star-lit  grove  or  moon-lit  dell ; 
Yet  silence  came  upon  material  things, 
Fair  flowers,  bright  waterfalls,  and  angel  wings, 
And  sound  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 
Rore  burden  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang  : 

"  'Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer, 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps  from  the  dreamer 
The  moonbeam  away,t 


*  "  Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery." — Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor. 

t  In  Scripture  is  this  passage, — "  The  sun  shall  not  harm 
thee  by  day,  nor  the  moon  by  night."  It  is  perhaps  not  gene 
rally  known,  that  the  moon,  in  Egypt,  has  the  effect  of  producing 
blindness  to  those  who  sleep  with  the  face  exposed  to  its  rays ;  to 
which  circumstance  the  passage  evidently  alludes. 


AL    AARAAF. 

Bright  beings  that  ponder, 

With  half-closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
Till  they  glance  through  the  shade,  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow, 
Like  eyes  of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now. 
Arise  !  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers, 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours ; 
And  shake  from  your  tresses, 

Encumbered  with  dew, 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 

That  cumber  them  too 
(Oh,  how  without  you,  love, 

Could  angels  be  blest  ?) — 
Those  kisses  of  true  love 

That  lulled  ye  to  rest ! 
Up  !  shake  from  your  wing 
Each  hindering  thing: 
The  dew  of  the  night- 
It  would  weigh  down  your  flight ; 
And  true  love  caresses — 

Oh,  leave  them  apart ! 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 

But  lead  on  the  heart. 


AL    AARAAF. 


157 


"  Ligeia,  Ligeia, 

My  beautiful  one  ! 
Whose  harshest  idea 
Will  to  melody  run. 


Oh,  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss; 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  albatross,'"" 

The  albatross  is  said  to  sleep  on  the  wing. 


I,58  AL   AARAAF. 

Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air), 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there  I 
"  Ligeia  !  wherever 

Thy  image  may  be, 
No  magic  shall  sever 

Thy  music  from  thee. 
Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

In  a  dreamy  sleep, 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep ; 
The  sound  of  the  rain 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again, 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower : 
The  murmur  that  springs  * 

From  the  growing  of  grass — 
Are  the  music  of  things — 
But  are  modelled,  alas  ! 
Away,  then,  my  dearest, 

Oh,  hie  thee  away 
To  springs  that  lie  clearest 
Beneath  the  moonray, — 

*  1  met  with  this  idea  in  an  old  English  tale,  which  I  am 
now  unable  to  obtain,  and  quote  from  memory: — "The  verie 
essence  and,  as  it  were,  springeheade  and  origine  of  all  musichc 
is  the  very  pleasaunte  sounde  which  the  trees  of  the  forest  do 
make  when  they  growe." 


AL   AARAAF.  159 

To  lone  lake  that  smiles, 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest, 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  enjewel  its  breast ; 
Where  wild  flowers  creeping 

Have  mingled  their  shade, 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid ; 
Some  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 

Have  slept  with  the  bee ;  * 
Arouse  them,  my  maiden, 

On  moorland  and  lea ; 
Go  !  breathe  on  their  slumber, 

All  softly  in  ear, 
The  musical  number 

They  slumbered  to  hear : 
For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon, 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 

*  The  wild  bee  will  not  sleep  in  the  shade  if  there  be  moonlight. 

The  rhyme  in  this  verse,  as  in  one  about  sixty  lines  before, 

has  an  appearance  of  affectation.     It  is,  however,  imitated  from 

Sir  W.  Scott,  or  rather  from  Claud  Halcro,  in  whose  mouth  I 

admired  its  effect  :— 

' '  Oh,  were  there  an  island, 

Though  ever  so  wild, 
Where  woman  might  smile,  and 
No  man  be  beguiled,"  &c. 


l6o  AL    AARAAF. 

As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test, 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lulled  him  to  rest  ?" 

Spirits  in  wing,  and  angels  to  the  view, 

A  thousand  seraphs  burst  th'  empyrean  through, 

Young  dreams  still  hovering  on  their  drowsy  flight, 

Seraphs  in  all  but  "knowledge,"  the  keen  light 

That  fell  refracted,  through  thy  bounds  afar, 

O  Death  !  from  eye  of  God  upon  that  star : 

Sweet  was  that  error — sweeter  still  that  death  — 

Sweet  was  that  error — ev'n  with  us  the  breath 

Of  Science  dims  the  mirror  of  our  joy — 

To  them  'twere  the  simoom,  and  would  destroy ; 

For  what  (to  them)  availeth  it  to  know 

That  truth  is  falsehood,  or  that  bliss  is  woe  I 

Sweet  was  their  death :  with  them  to  die  was  rife 

With  the  last  ecstacy  of  satiate  life; 

Beyond  that  death  no  immortality, 

But  sleep  that  pondereth,  and  is  not  "  to  be : " 

And  there — oh,  may  my  weary  spirit  dwell  ! 

Apart  from  heaven's  eternity — and  yet  how  far  from 

hell!* 

What  guilty  spirit,  in  what  shrubbery  dim, 
Heard  not  the  stirring  summons  of  that  hymn  I 

*  With  the  Arabians  there  is  a  medium  between  heaven  and 
hell,  where  men  suffer  no  punishment,  but  yet  do  not  obtain  that 


AL   AARAAF.  l6l 

But  two :  they  fell — for  Heaven  no  grace  imparts 
To  those  who  hear  not  for  their  beating  hearts. 
A  maiden-angel  and  her  seraph-lover — 
Oh,  where  (and  ye  may  seek  the  wide  skies  over) 
Was  Love  the  blind  near  sober  Duty  known '? 
Unguided   Love   hath   fallen,    'mid  "  tears  of  perfect 
moan."* 

He  was  a  goodly  spirit,  he  who  fell : 
A  wanderer  by  mossy-mantled  well — 
A  gazer  on  the  lights  that  shine  above — 
A  dreamer  in  the  moonbeam  by  his  love : 
What  wonder '?  for  each  star  is  eye-like  there, 
And  looks  so  sweetly  down  on  beauty's  hair; 

tranquil  and   even  happiness  which  they  suppose  to  be  charac 
teristic  of  heavenly  enjoyment. 
"Un  no  rompido  sueno, 
Un  dia  puro,  alegre,  libre, 
Quiera, 

Libre  de  amor,  de  zelo, 

De  odio,  de  esperanza,  de  rezelo." — Luis  PONCE  DE  LEON. 
Sorrow  is  not  excluded  from  "Al  Aaraaf;"  but  it  is  that  sorrow 
which  the  living  love  to  cherish  for  the  dead,  and  which,  in  some 
minds,  resembles  the  delirium  of  opium.  The  passionate  excite 
ment  of  love  and  the  buoyancy  of  spirit  attendant  upon  intoxica 
tion  are  its  less  holy  pleasures, — the  price  of  which,  to  those  souls 
who  make  choice  of  Al  Aaraaf  as  their  residence  after  life,  is  final 
death  and  annihilation. 

*  ' '  There  be  tears  of  perfect  moan 

Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon." — MILTON. 
L 


162 


AL    AARAAF. 


And  they  and  ev'ry  mossy  spring  were  holy 

To  his  love-haunted  heart  and  melancholy. 

The  night  had  found  (to  him  a  night  of  woe) 

Upon  a  mountain  crag  young  Angelo  ; 

Beetling  it  bends  athwart  the  solemn  sky, 

And  scowls  on  starry  worlds  that  down  beneath  it  lie. 

Here  sate  he  with  his  love,  his  dark  eye  bent 

With  eagle  gaze  along  the  firmament : 

Now  turned  it  upon  her,  but  ever  then 

It  trembled  to  the  orb  of  EARTH  again. 

"  lanthe,  dearest,  see  !  how  dim  that  ray  ! 

How  lovely  'tis  to  look  so  far  away ! 

She  seemed  not  thus  upon  that  autumn  eve 

I  left  her  gorgeous  halls,  nor  mourned  to  leave. 

That  eve — that  eve — I  should  remember  well, 

The  sun-ray  dropped  in  Lemnos  with  a  spell 

On  th'  arabesque  carving  of  a  gilded  hall 

Wherein  I  sat,  and  on  the  draperied  wall, 

And  on  my  eyelids.— Oh,  the  heavy  light, 

How  drowsily  it  weighed  them  into  night ! 

On  flowers,  before,  and  mist,  and  love  they  ran 

With  Persian  Saadi  in  his  Gulistan : 

But,  oh,  that  light ! — I  slumbered.     Death  the  while 

Stole  o'er  my  senses  in  that  lovely  isle, 

So  softly  that  no  single  silken  hair 

Awoke  that  slept,  or  knew  that  he  was  there. 


AL   AARAAF. 

lanthe,  clearest,  sec !  how  dim  that  ray ! ' 


AL   AARAAF. 


I63 


The  last  spot  of  earth's  orb  I  trod  upon 
Was  a  proud  temple  called  the  Parthenon : '"" 
More  beauty  clung  around  her  columned  wall 
Than  ev'n  thy  glowing  bosom  beats  withal.t 
And  when  old  Time  my  wing  did  disenthral, 
Thence  sprang  I,  as  the  eagle  from  his  tower, 
And  years  I  left  behind  me  in  an  hour. 

*  It  was  entire  in  1687,  the  most  elevated  spot  in  Athens. 
t ' '  Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 

Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  queen  of  love. " 

MARLOWE. 


>4  AL   AARAAF. 

What  time  upon  her  airy  bounds  I  hung, 
( )ne  half  the  garden  of  her  globe  was  flung. 
Unrolling  as  a  chart  unto  my  view — 
Tenantless  cities  of  the  desert  too. 
lanthe,  beauty  crowded  on  me  then, 
And  half  I  wished  to  be  again  of  men." 

"  My  Angelo  !  and  why  of  them  to  be  I 
A  brighter  dwelling  place  is  here  for  thee : 
And  greener  fields  than  in  yon  world  above, 
And  woman's  loveliness,  and  passionate  love." 

"  But  list,  lanthe  !  when  the  air  so  soft 
Failed,  as  my  pennoned '""  spirit  leapt  aloft, 
Perhaps  my  brain  grew  dizzy;  but  the  world 
I  left  so  late  was  into  chaos  hurled, 
Sprang  from  her  station,  on  the  winds  apart. 
And  rolled,  a  flame,  the  fiery  heaven  athwart. 
Methought,  my  sweet  one,  then  I  ceased  to  soar, 
And  fell,  not  swiftly  as  I  rose  before, 
But  with  a  downward  tremulous  motion,  through, 
Like  brazen  rays,  this  golden  star  unto  ! 
Nor  long  the  measure  of  my  falling  hours, 
For  nearest  of  all  stars  was  thine  to  ours. 
Dread  star  !  that  came,  amid  a  night  of  mirth, 
A  red  Dredalion  on  the  timid  earth. 

*  Pennon,  for  pinion. — MILTON. 


AL    AARAAF.  l6f, 

"  We  came,  and  to  thy  earth ;  but  not  to  us 
Be  given  our  lady's  bidding  to  discuss : 
We  came,  my  love ;  around,  above,  below, 
Gay  fire-fly  of  the  night,  we  come  and  go, 
Nor  ask  a  reason,  save  the  angel-nod 
S/ie  grants  to  us,  as  granted  by  her  God ; 
But,  Angelo,  than  thine  gray  Time  unfurled 
Never  his  fairy  wing  o'er  fairer  world  ! 
Dim  was  its  little  disk,  and  angel  eyes 
Alone  could  see  the  phantom  in  the  skies, 
When  first  Al  Aaraaf  knew  her  course  to  be 
Headlong  thitherward  o'er  the  starry  sea; 
But  when  its  glory  swelled  upon  the  sky, 
As  glowing  beauty's  bust  beneath  man's  eye, 
We  paused  before  the  heritage  of  men, 
And  thy  star  trembled,  as  doth  beauty  then." 

Thus,  in  discourse,  the  lovers  whiled  away 
The  night  that  waned  and  waned,  and  brought  no  day 
They  fell ;  for  Heaven  to  them  no  hope  imparts, 
Who  hear  not  for  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 


1 66 


SONNET— TO    SCIENCE. 


SCIENCE,  true  daughter  of  old  Time  thou  art, 

Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities  ? 
How  should  he  love  thee  ?  or  how  deem  thee  wise, 

Who  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 

Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  winjr ' 

O 

Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car, 
And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 

To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star  ? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 

The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 

The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind-tree  ? 


i67 


TAMERLANE. 


KIND  solace  in  a  dying  hour ! 

Such,  father,  is  not  now  my  theme — 
I  will  not  madly  deem  thy  power 

Of  earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revelled  in — 

I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream : 
You  call  it  hope,  that  fire  of  fire, — 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire : 
If  I  can  hope — O  God,  I  can — 

Its  fount  is  holier,  more  divine : 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 

But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine.* 

ii. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 

Bowed  from  its  wild  pride  into  shame. 

O  yearning  heart,  I  did  inherit 

Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame. 

*  Here  we  have  traces  enough  of  the  influences  of  Byronism 
on  the  poet's  youth.  Those  were  the  days  when  the  ''teeth- 
grinding,  glass-eyed  lone  Caloyer,"  to  use  CARLYLE'S  words,  was 
the  ideal  of  the  rising  generation. — ED. 


1 68 


TAMERLANE. 


The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 
Amid  the  jewels  of  my  throne, 
Halo  of  hell !  and  with  a  pain 
Not  hell  shall  make  me  fear  again. 
( )  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours  ! 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Rings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 
Upon  thy  emptiness— a  knell. 


I  have  not  always  been  as  now : 
The  fevered  diadem  on  my  brow 
I  claimed  and  won  usurpingly. 
Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given 
Rome  to  the  Caesar,  this  to  me  1 
The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 
And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind 

IV. 

On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life: 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed 
Nightly  their  dews  upon  my  head ; 

And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 

And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 

Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair. 


TAMERLANE.  169 


So  late  from  heaven — that  dew — it  fell 

('Mid  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  hell ; 

While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 
From  clouds  that  hung,  like  banners,  o'er, 

Appeared  to  my  half-closing  eye 

The  pageantry  of  monarchy ; 
And  the  deep  trumpet-thunder's  roar 

Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 
Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice, 

My  own  voice,  silly  child  !  was  swelling 

(Oh,  how  my  spirit  would  rejoice,  ' 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry !) 
The  battle-cry  of  victory  ! 


The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
Unsheltered;  and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind. 
It  was  but  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 

Laurels  upon  me ;  and  the  rush, 
The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air, 
Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crush 

Of  empires — with  the  captive's  prayer, 
The  hum  of  suitors,  and  the  tone 
Of  flattery  round  a  sovereign's  throne. 


'7°  TAMERLANE. 

VII. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurped  a  tyranny  which  men 
Have  deemed,  since  I  have  reached  to  power, 
My  innate  nature— be  it  so: 

But,  father,  there  lived  one  who  then, — 
Then,  in  my  boyhood,  when  their  fire 
Burned  with  a  still  intenser  glow 
(For  passion  must  with  youth  expire), 

E'en  then^  who  knew  this  iron  heart 

In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

VIII. 

J  have  no  words,  alas,  to  tell 
The  loveliness  of  loving  well ! 
Nor  would  I  now  attempt  to  trace 
The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 
Whose  lineaments  upon  my  mind 
Are  shadows  on  the  unstable  wind : 
Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters,  with  their  meaning,  melt 

To  fantasies — with  none. 

IX. 

( )h,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love  ! — 
Love,  as  in  infancy,  was  mine, — 


TAMERLANE.  I  7  I 

Twas  such  as  angel  minds  above 

Might  envy;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  ev'ry  hope  and  thought 
Were  incense :  then  a  goodly  gift, 

For  they  were  childish  and  upright, 
Pure  as  her  young  example  taught : 
Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  fire  within  for  light  ? 


We  grew  in  age  and  love  together, 
Roaming  the  forest  and  the  wild; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather ; 
And,  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smiled. 

And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 

/  saw  no  heaven  but  in  her  eyes. 

XI. 

Young  Love's  first  lesson  is  the  heart ; 

For  'mid  that  sunshine  and  those  smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 
I'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears — 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest — 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her,  who  asked  no  reason  why, 
But  turned  on  me  her  quiet  eye. 


'72  TAMERLANE. 

XII. 

Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 
My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 
When,  on  the  mountain-peak  alone, 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone. 


XIII. 

I  had  no  being  but  in  thee : 

The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 
In  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea, 

Its  joy—its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure,  the  ideal, 

Dim,  vanities  of  dreams  by  night, 
And  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real — 

(Shadows,  and  a  more  shadowy  light,) 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 
And  so,  confusedly,  became 
Thine  image  and  a  name — a  name  ! 
Two  separate,  yet  most  intimate  things. 

XIV. 

I  was  ambitious — have  you  known 

The  passion,  father '?     You  have  not : 
A  cottager,  I  marked  a  throne 
Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 
And  murmured  at  such  lowly  lot — 


TAMERLANE. 

But,  just  like  any  other  dream, 
Upon  the  vapour  of  the  dew 

My  own  had  past,  did  not  the  beam 
Of  beauty,  which  did  while  it  through 

The  minute,  the  hour,  the  day,  oppress 

My  mind  with  double  loveliness  1 


173 


xv. 

We  walked  together  on  the  crown 

Of  a  high  mountain,  which  looked  down, 

Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers, 

Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills — 
The  dwindled  hills— begirt  with  bowers, 

And  shouting  with  a  thousand  rills. 


I  7  4  TAMERLANE. 

XVI. 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 

But  mystically,  in  such  guise 
That  she  might  deem  it  naught  beside 

The  moment's  converse;  in  her  eyes 
I  read,  perhaps  too  carelessly, 

A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own ; 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek  to  me 

Seemed  to  become  a  queenly  throne, 
Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 

Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

XVII. 

I  wrapped  myself  in  grandeur  then, 
And  donned  a  visionary  crown ; 
Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me ; 
Hut  that,  among  the  rabble,  men, 

Lion  ambition  is  chained  down, 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand ; 
Not  so  in  deserts,  where  the  grand, 
The  wild,  the  terrible  conspire 
With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire. 

XVIII. 

Look  round  thee  now  on  Samarcand  ! — 
Is  she  not  queen  of  earth  ?  her  pride 

Above  all  cities  1  in  her  hand 
Their  'destinies  ?  in  all  beside 


TAMERLANE.  1 75 

Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known, 
Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone  1 
Falling,  her  veriest  stepping-stone 
Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne ; 
And  who  her  sovereign  ?     Timour  !  he 

Whom  the  astonished  people  saw 
Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily, 

A  diademed  outlaw  ! 


O  human  love  !  thou  spirit  given 
On  earth  of  all  we  hope  in  heaven ; 
Which  fall'st  into  the  soul-like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-withered  plain, 
And,  failing  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness ; 
Idea,  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound, 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth — 
Farewell !  for  I  have  won  the  earth. 

xx. 
When  Hope,  the  eagle  that  towered,  could  see 

No  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly, 

And  homeward  turned  his  softened  eye. 
'Twas  sunset :  when  the  sun  will  part 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart 


TAMERLANE. 

To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 

The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 

That  soul  will  hate  the  evening  mist, 

So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 

To  the  sound  of  the  coming  Darkness  (known 

To  those  whose  spirits  hearken)  as 'one 

Who  in  a  dream  of  night  would  fly, 

But  cannot^  from  a  danger  nigh. 

XXI. 

What  though  the  moon — the  white  moon- 
Shed  all  the  splendour  of  her  noon ; 
Her  smile  is  chilly,  and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like,  you  gather  in  your  breath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 
And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun, 
Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one; 
For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known, 
And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown ; 
Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 
With  the  noonday  beauty — which  is  all. 


I  reached  my  home — my  home  no  more ; 

For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 
I  passed  from  out  its  mossy  door, 

And,  though  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 


TAMERLANE.  1 7  7 

A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 
Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known — 

Oh,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show, 

On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below, 

An  humbler  heart,  a  deeper  woe. 

XXIIT. 

Father,  I  firmly  do  believe— 

I  know — for  death  who  comes  for  me 

From  regions  of  the  blest  afar, 
Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive. 
Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 

And  rays  of  truth  you  cannot  see 

Are  flashing  through  eternity, — 
I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 
A  snare  in  every  human  path ; 
Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove 
I  wandered,  of  the  idol,  Love, 
Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 
With  incense  of  burnt-offerings 
From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 
Whose  pleasant  bowers  are  yet  so  riven 
Above  with  trellised  rays  from  heaven, 
No  mote  may  shun,  no  tiniest  fly, 
The  lightning  of  his  eagle  eye ; — 
How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept, 

Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 
Till,  growing  bold,  he  laughed  and  leapt 

In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair  ( 


178 


TO    THE    RIVER 


FAIR  River,  in  thy  bright  clear  flow 

Of  crystal  wandering  water, 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 

Of  beauty,  the  unhidden  heart— 
The  playful  maziness  of  art 
In  old  Alberto's  daughter. 


But  when  within  thy  wave  she  looks, 

Which  glistens  then  and  trembles, 
Why  then  the  prettiest  of  brooks 

Her  worshipper  resembles; 
For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies — 
His  heart,  which  trembles  at  the  beam 

Of  her  soul-searching  eyes. 


179 


T  O 


THE  bowers,  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 
The  wantonest  singing  birds, 

Are  lips,  and  all  thy  melody 
Of  lip-begotten  words. 


ii. 

Thine  eyes,  in  heaven  of  heart  enshrined, 

Then  desolately  fall, 
O  God  !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall. 


in. 

Thy  heart — thy  heart ! — I  wake  and  sigh, 

And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 
Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy — 

Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 


i8o 


A    I)  R  E  A  M. 


IN  visions  of  the  dark  night, 

I  have  dreamed  of  joy  departed; 

But  a  waking  dream  of  life  and  light 
Hath  left  me  broken-hearted. 


n. 


Ah  !  what  is  not  a  dream  by  day 
To  him  whose  eyes  are  cast 

On  things  around  him  with  a  ray 
Turned  back  upon  the  past  ? 


That  holy  dream — that  holy  dream, 
While  all  the  world  were  chiding, 

Hath  cheered  me  as  a  lovely  beam 
A  lonely  spirit  guiding. 


A    DREAM.  l8l 


IV. 


What  though  that  light,  through  storm  and  night, 

So  trembled  from  afar; 
What  could  there  be  more  purely  bright 

In  Truth's  day-star  ? 


182 


THE   LAKE. 


TO 


IN  spring  of  youth  it  was  my  lot 

To  haunt  of  the  wild  world  a  spot, 

The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less, 

So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 

Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 

And  the  tall  pines  that  towered  around. 


THE    LAKE.  183 

II. 

But  when  the  Night  had  thrown  her  pall 

Upon  that  spot,  as  upon  all, 

And  the  mystic  wind  went  by, 

Murmuring  in  melody; 

Then,  ah,  then,  I  would  awake 

To  the  terror  of  the  lone  lake. 


in. 

Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright, 

But  a  tremulous  delight; 

A  feeling  not  the  jewelled  mine 

Could  teach  or  bribe  me  to  define, 

Nor  love — although  the  love  were  thine. 


IV. 

Death  was  in  that  poisonous  wave, 

And  in  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 

For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 

To  his  lone  imagining — 

Whose  solitary  soul  could  make 

An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 


i84 


R  O  M  A  N  C  K 


ROMANCE,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing, 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 
To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been — a  most  familiar  bird — 
Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say, 
To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word, 
While  in  the  wild  wood  I  did  lie, 
A  child  with  a  most  knowing  eye. 

( )f  late,  eternal  condor  years 
So  shake  the  very  heaven  on  high 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 
I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 
Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky; 


ROMANCE.  185 

And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 
Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings, 
That  little  time  with  lyre  and  rhyme 
To  while  away — forbidden  things  ! 
My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime 
Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 


i86 


FAIRY-LAND. 


DIM  vales,  and  shadowy  floods, 

And  cloudy-looking  woods, 

Whose  forms  we  can't  discover 

For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over ; 

Huge  moons  there  wax  and  wane — 

Again,  again,  again  — 

Every  moment  of  the  night, 

For  ever  changing  places; 

And  they  put  out  the  star-light 

With  the  breath  from  their  pale  faces, 

About  twelve  by  the  moon-dial. 

One  more  filmy  than  the  rest 

(A  kind  which,  upon  trial, 

They  have  found  to  be  the  best) 

Comes  down — still  down — and  down 

With  its  centre  on  the  crown 

Of  a  mountain's  eminence ; 

While  its  wide  circumference 

In  easy  drapery  falls 

Over  hamlets,  over  halls, 

Wherever  they  may  be — 

o'er  the  strange  woods,  o'er  the  sea. 


FAIRY- LAND. 
"  I>im  vales,  and  shadowy  floods." 


FAIRY-LAND.  187 


Over  spirits  on  the  wing, 

Over  every  drowsy  thing — 

And  buries  them  up  quite 

In  a  labyrinth  of  light ; 

And  then,  how  deep  ! — oh,  deep 

Is  the  passion  of  their  sleep  ! 

In  the  morning  they  arise, 

And  their  moony  covering 

Is  soaring  in  the  skies, 

With  the  tempests  as  they  toss 

Like — almost  anything — 

Or  a  yellow  albatross. 

They  use  that  moon  no  more 

For  the  same  end  as  before — 

Videlicet  a  tent — 

Which  I  think  extravagant : 

Its  atomies,  however, 

Into  a  shower  dissever, 

Of  which  those  butterflies 

Of  earth,  who  seek  the  skies, 

And  so  come  down  again, 

(Never-contented  things !) 

Have  brought  a  specimen 

Upon  their  quivering  wings. 


i88 


SON  G. 


I  SAW  thee  on  thy  bridal  day, 

When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thei 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee : 


ii. 


And  in  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 
(Whatever  it  might  be) 

Was  all  on  earth  my  aching  sight 
Of  loveliness  could  see. 


in. 


That  blush  perhaps  was  maiden  shame, 

As  such  it  well  may  pass, 
Though  its  glow  hath  raised  a  fiercer  flame 

In  the  breast  of  him,  alas, 


SONG.  189 


IV. 


Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er  thee ; 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee. 


TO    M.    L.    S. 


OF  all  who  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning — 

( )f  all  to  whom  thine  absence  is  the  night — 

The  blotting  utterly  from  out  high  heaven 

The  sacred  sun— of  all  who,  weeping,  bless  thee 

Hourly  for  hope — for  life— ah,  above  all, 

For  the  resurrection  of  deep  buried  faith 

In  truth,  in  virtue,  in  humanity — 

Of  all  who,  on  despair's  unhallowed  bed 

Lying  down  to  die,  have  suddenly  arisen 

At  thy  soft-murmured  words,  "  Let  there  be  light ! " 

At  thy  soft-murmured  words  that  were  fulfilled 

In  the  seraphic  glancing  of  thine  eyes — 

Of  all  who  owre  thee  most,  whose  gratitude 

Nearest  resembles  worship, — oh,  remember 

The  truest,  the  most  fervently  devoted, 

And  think  that  these  weak  lines  are  written  by  him- 

By  him  who,  as  he  pens  them,  thrills  to  think 

His  spirit  is  communing  with  an  angel's. 


TO    HELEN 


HELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo,  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand ! 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  holy  land  ! 


Bell  6°  Bain,  Printers,  Glasgow. 


LOAN  DEPT 


This  book  is  due  oo  M*. 
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